There and Back Again Lane
by Mangykneazle
Summary: Fearful of attacks by the remaining Death Eaters after Voldemort’s final defeat, the Ministry Obliviates a grievously injured Harry and ‘re-integrates’ him into Muggle society. Five years later, Harry has just completed his studies at university and is en
1. I Remember Nothing

**There and Back Again Lane**

Ch.1 - I Remember Nothing

It's so dark, so peaceful. I can't feel anything anymore...

Sirius and I are celebrating with Firewhisky at the Three Broomsticks. After seven years and six run-ins with Lord Voldemort and his minions, I finally graduated from Hogwarts. I'm amazed I was ever as young as these third years here for the first time. My godfather's jokingly trying to dissuade me from my life's ambition. "It's such a dangerous profession; you're bound to get hurt," he laughs. With that a discordant note emerges.

"You're dead." I get up from the table barely able to look him in the face as his joy of my success shatters into grief and pity. The sorrow etched on his face is murdering me. "You can't be here," I tell him, continuing to back away. One look around the room reveals my worst fears, that all the pub-goers are those who had died to get me to that point, where I was. There's Cedric chatting up Madam Rosmerta, Mum and Dad coming to stand behind Sirius for moral support. All eyes in the pub turn towards me. "Neither can you, Harry," Sirius answers.

I don't try to fight the tears, but they just won't come. I realise he's dead and that, like so many of these faces I will never see again, it was my fault. I don't know how many hours I've spent awake imagining how things should have been different, and how many sleeping hours I relived each second of their deaths. It's just too much. There's no hatred in their expressions, just sickening concern and distressing pity.

"Harry," Sirius's voice reverberates within me, shattering my heart as I try to stopper my ears. I feel his hand clasp my shoulder. "Harry, you have to go back." Back to the noise, the stench of death, the crying? No. "You have to seal the prophecy, you have to live." I know he's telling me the truth, but I don't care. My friends and family have paid my blood price, I deserve to go on. Instead of them.

"You don't belong here, Harry." He now sounds like so many people who've gone before me, and starts to look like them too. Luna was right – you do see them again. So many I could have prevented. I was too late, again.

"Go!" A shove in the back and out into the world.

I must have been dreaming. Damnable hell. I feel every part of my body shattered, ablaze, and rent. My breathing is laboured and I feel bubbles forming on my lips. Sucking chest wound, goes well with my broken legs. Can't seem to feel my right arm. Please, don't look at it. Can't see much anyway – just shapes, ever darkening. Bloody hell.

Through the almost insurmountable physical agony, I'm beginning to remember my friends falling trying to give me more time. I felt their deaths as he murdered them. But I had to hold on until it was time. I _had_ to.

Someone please end this... no, wrong way to think. Did we win? I can't hear anything now, but faint images shift in front of me. Maybe that's a face. I try to ask who it is, but my lips don't move. I attempt to raise my arms to touch it, but they refuse. Don't know whether to laugh or cry, so I settle, unsuccessfully, for both. Why aren't I unconscious yet? So many, so many...

The dead. They're fading from me. I'm trying to remember, but they're too many, they're slipping away to quickly for me to grasp. _Oh, there's a tear_, some part of me declares as I feel a faint trail of wetness find its way to my ear. Great triumph.

There's a voice. It's distant but just audible. I recognise it but can't place it. Can't even tell whether its male or female. "He did it, he did it," is all it says. I guess that means me...

Voice. Who is it? Dunno. Male, I think.

"We've done test after test," he says, "and it's always the same result." Must be a Healer.

"That can't be true," declares a familiar female voice. Who's that?

"Perhaps it _would_ have been better to have let him die," another proclaims. Oh, thank you, so kind. Troll. Yet I know that voice too, as if it were my own.

"The Obliviators will take care of that," the Healer declares. "And the Ministry will help him reintegrate into Muggle society."

Small bloody consolation, ending up like Lockhart. Er, what was that last bit again?

"I can't believe it," the woman pleads. "Harry Potter's a Squib."

No... What?

* * *

It was five years since the car crash that changed my life. I'd hired a car to take Mum and Dad to Heathrow for their twentieth anniversary. I'd tried to pass a container lorry when it veered in front of us. My attempts to swerve away caused the car to flip. They perished immediately. I spent four months in hospital. Strange that I can scarcely remember my parents at all, though I dream about that day more often than I care to recall.

But my life isn't all tragedy. After a year in traction, most of which I can't remember either, I was released back into the world and able to continue my chemistry studies at the University of Edinburgh. Two years after that, I met her.

I was back in London, emerging from a record shop to celebrate my most recent wretched break-up with a few mates when I bumped into her. Literally, spilling the contents of her satchel on to the pavement. To this day, I've no idea how I missed seeing her vivid red hair but she seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Stammering an apology, I helped collect her things. She, in the midst of mumbled imprecations as we kneeled to pick the pages strewn on the ground, fell on to her backside in what I later discovered was gobsmacked recognition.

"Er, I'm Ginny Weasley," she announced, extending a hand in greeting. "We went to school together." I blurted my name and was about to mumble an awkward remonstrance that certainly I would have remembered her if we had – or another tired one-liner – when something about her beautiful face, her hair seemed so familiar. So much like _home_. I forgot completely about the friends I was to meet and invited her to a cosy nearby pub. We've been together ever since.

We're a peculiar pair, I the staid scientist and she the homeopathic apprentice healer. She has the most extraordinary sense of everyday fashion, simple but slightly, wonderfully odd whereas my clothes are blandly ordinary. Her sense of humour is lethal and wide-ranging while mine tends to the dry. We're murderous at parties, rounding in on our less quick-witted company like wolves on a herd of sheep. We can communicate with the merest look but we both of us have secrets in which neither of us pry too deeply. Together, we're also a terror to electrical equipment.

I remember our first big row clearly, though not the reason(s) why. There we were, happily shouting at one another, when the toaster next to my hand caught alight and the telephone sizzled in its wall-mount next to her. We could barely look at each other for shame after that. Then there was the day she sat on my lap as I was working on my laptop. Thankfully I had already saved my work, because the computer began to smoulder. It must have been jealous because the technician could find nothing otherwise wrong with it. Much to my – and likely the technician's – chagrin, Ginny still won't sit on my lap if I'm working.

I'd better finish this off. We're off to see her brothers in London for their blessing to our engagement, and it's my turn to clean the owl's cage. Yeah, she has a snowy owl as a pet. Quite an affectionate bird, our Hedwig. And as I give my sweet slumbering lass a peck on the forehead before receiving a nibble from my other girl, I know this is the best of all possible worlds.


	2. Such as I

**There and Back Again Lane**

Ch. 2 – Such as I

The kiss on the forehead woke me. After three years of interminable insomnia for fear of Death Eater attacks and the resulting nightmares, it was surprising that I could ever sleep peacefully again. Despite the past two years, it's _faintly_ unnerving that his touch is about the only thing that can wake me these days. Still, I grace him with an unbidden but entirely pleased smile as I try, hopelessly, to rise from the warm bed. Then I hear the telephone ring in the distance and groan, clutching the pillow over my head.

Telephones, accursed machines! I remember that first major row we had shortly after I'd moved to Edinburgh. Harry had asked where I worked. As a chemist, he was fascinated about 'alternative medicine.' Couldn't exactly tell him the truth at that point – yes, well, I'm a witch, and I Apparate each day to the Ministry of Magic in London – so I blethered on about the struggle of homeopathy against the tyranny of science. All those years of listening to Hermione drone on about SPEW were rewarded. I'd just hit my stride when I smelled plastic burning to my left. Panicked, I glanced between my seething lover and the simmering device. Bloody telephone was smouldering like my chances of escaping this argument without grave revelations. Fortunately, though I'd no idea how, Harry had managed his own accidental magic, setting the toaster alight. Were it not for the reek of scorched plastic and the shocked look on his face as he shifted his gaze from the toaster to the telephone, I'd have leapt on him. As it was, he muttered something about shoddy electrics, unplugged the toaster, and slunk off terribly embarrassed. At least he never asked where I practise again. Then I remember. _Bugger!_

"Ginny," he whispers sweetly, "you up? It's Hermione." Small favours. Wrapping myself in the white bedsheet, I trundle dazed to the phone. She brings good news: under threat of her wrath, my brothers have promised to behave. Still, I note her voice shaking under the weight of five years of worry. This is the first time Harry and Hermione have spoken since _that_ night, unless she rang while I was out. Though I've spoken of her on a number of occasions and he's expressed an interest in meeting her and my other non-Muggle friends, I've fobbed him off with the shoddy excuses of distance, conflicting schedules, and other bollocks.

"He really doesn't remember anything?" she pleads. I can almost hear the tears welling up over the line.

"Yes." It's a practised lie, second nature now.

The memories began returning the night of the row. He went to bed before me, giving me an abashed kiss on the cheek that reminded me all too clearly of the teenage boy he once was. My head just hit the pillow when I heard him mutter something. "Just hold on," he begged over and over. Though I felt ghoulish, I waited patiently for the dream to unfold. He shuddered a number of times, tears streamed down his face. Almost in a speaking voice, he ordered his ghosts to stand firm. _He's reliving the battle, blow for blow_, I realised as his words penetrated my own recollections. Then he began reciting the names of the dead, the dying, and the injured. He recoiled particularly at several names, as did I, ending almost incoherently with my family and what had become the core six of the DA. I discovered only then he'd thought I had died earlier in the battle along with my brother Bill. He spoke my name clearly, which I took in my stupid jealously of the moment as an insult, until his hand emerged from the sheets to caress the face in his nightmares, tears once more welling in his eyes. He was silent for a short while, his breathing shallow, before erupting in an oddly strained laugh that brought him back to consciousness with a start.

I'd slumped back on to my own pillow and pretended to have woken with him. Looking down on his face, for a moment I could see in his eyes that he remembered me as we had been until the conditioning reasserted itself once more. My heart broke again that night, and I cried like I hadn't since that night three-and-a-half years before, folded in his arms until morning. He said he'd remembered nothing of the dream on either that or the next four nights when it returned, abbreviated but still horrible.

"I'll make sure the brothers won't say anything," Hermione reaffirms, misinterpreting my trip down misery lane as reproaching her skills to control my brothers. Against the both of us, the prats don't stand a chance.

I mumble my thanks and end the conversation quickly, tears stinging my eyes.

It's hard for me to think of my family – I almost envy Harry's ignorance. I avoided contact with them after the battle. From a brood of nine, Voldemort and his minions reduced us to three, four if you include the git stuck in the Broom Registration Office in Swansea, which most of us don't. Mum died defending us against a Death Eater attack at 12 Grimmauld Place during Christmas holiday the year after Sirius's death. Charlie succumbed to a Death Eater attack in Romania later in my fifth term while trying to rally the local wizarding community against Voldemort. George died next to Fred in the last battle as the two fended off six Death Eaters in the best traditions of the Prewett family. Voldemort killed Bill himself. My brother stood against him, protecting me as I lay unconscious with ancient wards but in the end bravely falling with so many others. Dad died last of all as he defeated Lucius Malfoy.

Remus, as he'd sworn, became our surrogate parent with some success. Of the three of us, Fred lost the most, but he still had Remus as a 'senior consultant' to Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes and his friends, especially Angelina. Fred married her in a small ceremony after I completed my final term at Hogwarts. Lee Jordan was the best man and Alicia Spinnet, the maid of honour. Remus loaned his talents as a Marauder to provide Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes a competitive edge. Ron gave up on his ambition to become an Auror and devoted himself to his two other obsessions, Hermione and Quidditch. After having tried Hermione's stoicism for two straight years, he gathered enough nerve to ask her out in his sixth year and, despite their turbulent relationship, they've have been together ever since. They married the month before I ran into Harry, after she completed her Healer training. I was her maid of honour and Fred, the best man; Neville was still collecting plants in Borneo. Ron made his way on to the starting seven of the Chudley Cannons in spite of his numerous injuries and, were it not for lacklustre Seeking, they would be leading the league now. Still, third isn't bad.

I sublimated my grief in school work, then with my Auror training and a few indifferent relationships, the latter still much to Ron's dismay. He and Hermione, mostly Hermione, tried to get me to talk about things. Faced with their oppressive, questioning gaze over Christmas holidays during my seventh year, I moved into George's old room over the shop. Remus let it be known he'd always be there for advice, a kind ear, or moral support should I require it. If only he had been a little younger. Fred and I, however, had a tacit agreement not to discuss either our losses or my lovelife. Talk of Harry was particularly _tabu_. I half-suspect that to this day Fred believes Harry was responsible for Mum's death; I've never been able to tell him Harry had felt likewise. He avoided all of us for a month, slinking away under his invisibility cloak to the least explored parts of the castle. Nor was he there for the nightmares when he begged her for forgiveness. Both of Fred and I were unaware Harry had survived until that day two years ago. Though now I can understand why Remus, Ron, and Hermione kept that bit of news from Fred and me, I still hated them for it.

The day Harry and I met is permanently etched in my memory. I'd just left the Leaky Cauldron after another rousing hearing with Hermione on one of my few days off from training fit to hex into oblivion the next ruddy idiot with delusions of controlling my life when I collided with some bloke, sending the contents of my half-opened satchel on to the pavement. The curses came to my lips quicker than I thought possible as I knelt to pick up my notes, obscuring his apologies. Something in the voice clicked, however, and I glanced up – and unceremoniously fell flat on my arse. Only a trace of the scar remained, but the rest of his face, notably the piercing green eyes, was unchanged, well, maybe a little fuller and his glasses suited him better. Noting his inability to place me, it took all my self-control to introduce myself calmly as an old schoolmate of his, especially when a flicker of recognition crossed his face finally as he introduced himself. A shock went through my arm as he helped me to my feet, and I wouldn't be surprised if I blushed like I had ten years before. When he invited me to a pub, I nearly pointed back to the Leaky Cauldron before correcting myself.

While the day we met is still clear to me, the evening is rather blurry. The backstory I'd concocted as a Healer, suitably veiled in Muggle terms, would have received at least an 'E' from my Auror instructors. Even so, I could tell Harry wasn't entirely convinced, though I could tell he didn't know why. Switching topics, I asked what had brought him to the area. In the process of ferreting out the tale of Harry's latest romantic debacle, we proceeded to get right pissed. Knowing the Harry that was, he was probably trying to drown his embarrassment. I was torn between jealousy and quashing what I feared was an unreasonable feeling of hope. Er, I also think I snogged him senseless in the booth – not that he minded. _Naughty Ginny_. George would have been proud.

Somehow, we managed to extract ourselves from the pub. Harry and I walked hand in hand back to the Leaky Cauldron like a couple of schoolkids, occasionally stopping for a quick drunken snog. For good or ill, he was a gentleman, not hinting a one-off. I think he actually quoted Macbeth, before he asked for my number. I lied convincingly enough that I was in the process of moving so my telephone hadn't been connected, suggesting we meet at the same place next afternoon. We spent the rest of our holiday together, much to the irritation of Ron and Hermione and Harry's friends. _Well, sod them._

When I told Hermione and my brothers that Harry was alive, Ron and Hermione gave one another terrified glances suggesting they already knew. The Floo Authority probably wished they had some censoring charms after I'd finished with those two. I sent them each a Howler for good measure. Fred's response was guarded, torn between pleasure of the return of the prodigal brother and chief investor and cursing the continued existence of the cause of our mother's death. Thankfully, the former sentiments won out.

Harry still had two-and-a-half years left until he graduated while I'd six months left of Auror training, so we were only able to ring each other and meet on the occasional weekend. I had to move out of Diagon Alley to be able to use that ruddy telephone, though Fred and Angelina were well pleased to get me out of the way. After completing my training and enduring Hermione and Ron's remonstrances, I decided to move north. I know they didn't want to see either of us hurt, but I persisted stubbornly. I'd fallen for this Harry as hard as I had for the other one. _Our_ Harry.

I stumble bleary-eyed into the shower wishing to drown the tears threatening to cascade down. Times like this, I don't know why I hadn't listened to them. Harry's busy in the sitting room cleaning Hedwig's cage so he can't witness this latest crack in my armour. _I'm stronger than this_, a voice in my head chimes, only to recall that I've yet to tell him what I am, and what he's becoming. _Oh, damnable bugger._

This will be the longest train trip, ever.


	3. Come on Home

**There and Back Again Lane**

Ch. 3 – Come on Home

---(Ginny's POV)---

I'm panicking, in no fit state to confront Harry about anything. Desperate to change alone, I place Harry's clothes on the chair outside and place the first tie I find on top. _Calm down,_ I tell myself as I sit on the edge of the bed. _Everything will be fine._ I glower at my clothes in the armoire. Why not work clothes? But that would let Harry down – we're a couple, both of us might as well look like berks – and Hermione would kill me. It's to be the complete girly-girl treatment: light green silk dress, low-heeled shoes, and a little make-up and scent. Actually, I clean up pretty well.

This little preening session before the mirror is rudely interrupted by an obnoxious wee git of a bird tapping on the window. I do love Pigwidgeon, but I wouldn't be surprised if he's part snidget. He bears a letter from Hermione. Ringing this morning wasn't enough. The Muggle-born witch who received the maximum possible number of OWLs and NEWTs has probably committed one of the more obvious breaches of wizarding secrecy, but then maybe Pig was blown off course.

_Dear Ginny,_

_I hope this letter finds you well and before you depart Edinburgh. I apologise for writing by regular post, but the telephone lines were down this evening._

_We will likely be a little late to the meeting tomorrow afternoon, say three o'clock, as I've a meeting with the Ministry in the morning, though I'm certain you will probably enjoy reacquainting yourself with London._

_I don't know exactly how to write this without being direct: have you told him yet? Now that you are engaged it is essential that he is aware into what sort of situation he is entering. Also, there is the concern regarding the effect such a revelation will have on his treatment. The staff on the fourth floor are worried that regression or worse might result. Please, I beg you, consider what you are doing to the both of you._

_Probably you think I'm over-stepping the bounds of friendship or family by making writing these things, but I_ do_ understand what you are going through. Ron and I lost him that night as well. Though we knew slightly more than you, we were sworn to secrecy for both /i his i and your benefit. It's highly improbable he will ever been the man he was or could have become should he recover._

_I'm so sorry and hope you understand._

_Love,_

_Hermione _

It takes all my strength not to demonstrate my vast knowledge of obscenities at the loudest possible volume. Pig, usually so obtuse in such matters, senses my fury and flutters to rest on the armoire. I'm tempted to append my response to the end of her letter.

_Hermione,_

_Bugger off._

–_Ginny_

I hear Harry getting ready just outside and decide to leave my answer for when we get to London. Pig gets an owl treat before I usher him out the window. Time to face reality. I take my rarely-used mobile to explain my foul mood.

---(Harry's POV)---

Ginny leaves the bathroom for the bedroom as I toss Hedwig's rubbish into the bin. My black suit's hanging from a chair in the hallway, not very stylish but formal, a red tie draped on top. I would have thought my Uni tie would have been more appropriate to display me as a proper prospective brother-in-law, but I'm too nervous to argue. And while shaving goes without severing a blood vessel, my hair still won't stay down. It's been a two year battle. I'm tempted to put styling product in my hair, but it makes Ginny sneeze. So I admit defeat, get dressed, and ensure there's at least some shine on my shoes.

She emerges from the bedroom a radiant vision but with a scowl that curdles my blood. I ask her what's wrong but she just waves off the question. Paper is crumpled in one hand and her mobile is being crushed by the other. "Hermione sends her love," she grunts finally. Her face is hard, her eyes caustic when she looks at me. Then she shakes her head, cradling it in her other hand inadvertently hitting herself with the mobile. "Damn it."

"You look beautiful," I declare, pulling her gently into an embrace, "though clumsy." I kiss where she struck herself and hear her giggle. I adore the feel of the cool green silk as it flows over her soft skin. Her scent enchants me, the gentle perfume of lilies. She relaxes briefly in my arms before prompting me towards the suitcases and the door while she grabs Hedwig's cage.

The cabbie isn't impressed by our avian accompaniment but is professional enough to attempt disguising it. I give him a twenty-percent gratuity when we reach Waverley brightening his mood somewhat. I look in the shops in the station lounge and think about buying a third bottle of whisky for the trip.

I don't know what it is, but every time I go south by train, less so when I went to see Ginny, I feel miserable. London's a beautiful city, and I love it when I'm there, but the trip always shatters my nerves. Ginny's strangely tetchy today as well. Her family can't be that bad, can it? I wish I'd bought three bottles – I could murder at least half a bottle right now.

I've never seen her so anxious. _She's not having second thoughts, is she?_ Sod it. I know of a decent whisky seller in the City and buy them a fresh bottle when we get to London.

---(Ginny's POV)---

Thank Merlin, he's opened the bottle. I thrust out my empty beaker of tea and don't let him stop pouring until it's near the brim. _What was I thinking?_ I hold the beaker out for another treble. I can't look at him except by sidelong glances, even though the speeding countryside along with too swiftly consumed liquor is making me ill. He's gazing intently at the bottle when he isn't casting nervous looks at my face. _Probably wondering why he's engaged to a nervous lunatic._

_Sweet sodding hell._ I wonder if I hit my head hard enough against the window I'll knock myself out. Damn, he's capped the bottle.

---(Harry's POV)---

The cabin is spinning a bit too quick for my taste. I reach out and grab her hand, hoping that will stabilise me somewhat. She gifts me with a stunned, pitying grimace, but I don't let go. Her hand is the only thing stopping the cabin from revolving in a thousand directions.

---(Ginny's POV)---

I feel his hand in mine and my breathing becomes deeper. This peaceful feeling is contrasting brutally with the alcohol so instead of a beaming smile I manage a squeamish grin. _Bollocks._ But he doesn't let go. The sickness-inducing countryside is forgotten as I slump back into my seat, clutching his hand tightly. _It's OK,_ I tell myself, _they won't,_ we _won't bugger this up._ I look at Harry; he's staring fixedly at the wall opposite, his face slightly paler than normal. Why do I let this boy make my life all pear-shaped?

_Because you love him, you daft git._ And I feel a smile flow across my face as I fall asleep on his arm.

---(Harry's POV)---

One of these days I'll have to find out her secret of falling asleep on trains. I always have this odd fear something will attack me.

I hope her recent relaxed state isn't entirely owing to the two full beakers of whisky. It's rare to see her drink so much. I have a shufti at the letter Ginny's sister-in-law, Hermione, sent us. Unfortunately, it's completely unintelligible as the small, neat handwriting shifts and curls around the parchment in my alcohol haze. The wall is quite interesting, isn't it?

---(Ginny's POV)---

I wake thirty minutes later, my mind still well behind an amber curtain. A surreptitiously cast anti-inebriation charm later, and the world's just a sepia wash away from perfect clarity. Harry's nodded off, well mostly. The letter from Hermione's in his hands. _He's too drunk to read it, he won't remember if he did._ I can't even convince myself now. A little legerdemain and the letter's in my purse. He's trying vainly to keep his eyes open. The best time to ask some questions.

"Harry?" I whisper hesitatingly.

"Mm?"

"Did you read the letter?"

He shakes his head. "Couldn't."

A sigh escapes me. Then, I recall vaguely something he said about how his previous girlfriend at that pub two years ago.

"Why did Siobhan break it off?" Hide the quaver in your voice, Ginny.

He snickered. Maybe he's more awake than I thought. "Coffee pot," he muttered. "Bloody carafe exploded, cut my hand. Said I was a menace." He drifts off again. "Said I had nightmares, too."

While slightly jealous that I wasn't the catalyst to his recovery, it at least explained his reaction to the toaster. "Has something like that happened before?" I continued. "Other than that toaster. Anything odd?"

"Dunno," he mumbles. He laughs again. "There was that time in a pub, when these lads started to get rough. Pint glasses bursting, the sods," he chuckled. "Never bothered us again."

"Do you remember anything before," _calm, Ginny,_ "before the car crash?"

"Mm?"

"Parents, school?"

"Football." And the bastard grins. _Men._ It's tempting to hex him, but in his present state half the fun would be lost. What if he'd said, "Quidditch"?

Who needs a drink? But the sight of the whisky bottle sickens me now. I take it from his hand and put it back in the carrier bag.

The train arrives at King's Cross on time, five hours ahead of Hermione's revised schedule. Nudging Harry awake, I hand him a bottle of water and a pair of paracetamol tablets. He moans his thanks and kisses my cheek We collect our luggage and Hedwig, cabbing it to the hotel. Thankfully, Hermione's made a special arrangement through the Ministry allowing us to keep Hedwig _en suite_. Even after two years of living amongst Muggles I forget such things.

I still haven't told him. There's enough residual effects of the whisky to dull the panic to a vague anxiety. I tell him we've a few hours before we're to meet the family. Harry's taking things in stride, though that may be because his head's still careering from the voyage. _Gryffindor, my arse._ If I can't tell the man I love I'm a witch by the date of the wedding, what kind of marriage would it be? I know it's customary to inform the Muggle-to-be-married after when the joint marriage license/magical secrecy contract has been signed, but this is a special case.

As we pass the British Library en route to the hotel, I suggest returning there. He accepts even though I know he would either prefer to sleep off the drink or reacquaint himself with the local music shops. "A little culture would be good," he replies with an honest smile. Instead, we end up shagging ourselves senseless, our mutual panic along with the lingering drink proving to be an irresistible aphrodisiac, much to Hedwig's dismay. But with this pleasure comes pain: what if this is the last time, if when he finds out I've lied all this time he buggers off to who knows where, if he forsakes me at the altar, forever? The dam and dikes I've built to withstand the thought of his loss ever since I was a little girl burst. I wail horribly as I lay upon him: there can be no return to some antediluvian paradise. He embraces me tightly, kissing my face, pleading to know what's wrong. But I can't tell him, can't bear to lose him.

And that's what's most wrong.

---(Harry's POV)---

She begins to shake against me. I remember the first time we had sex, she started trembling awkwardly. Worried that I was somehow injuring her, I opened my eyes and look at her. Her face was beet-red, eyes brimming with tears, her hand over her mouth like an embarrassed schoolgirl, and the ends of her lips threatening to reach her ears. "What's wrong?" I asked. She completely lost it. I've never heard anyone laugh so hard in my life. "You should see your face," she managed finally in the brief pauses between bursts of laughter. So I started pulling faces like a schoolboy. I doubt I've ever had such a maddeningly enjoyable time in my life. Still, she occasionally giggles afterward. But as I feel the tears burning on my neck and shoulder, there's no doubt she's crying. I hold her tightly, entreating her to tell me what's wrong. She won't say but cries desperately, squeezes me as if she's drowning, begging me between sobs not to let go. I can't, I won't.

So what's wrong?


	4. Thinking of a Dream I Had

**There and Back Again Lane**

Ch. 4 – Thinking of a Dream I Had

---(Harry's POV)---

I dream of corridors...

My eyes are covered with gauze. The fabric enveloping me blends the walls into abstraction. I'm walking swiftly under a coat or something, someone's hand, slightly smaller and more fine – a girl's? – in mine. _Was I ever this young?_ Portraits, busts, and the occasional suit of armour line the halls through which we scurry. I'm reminded of my grammar school, though the hallways resemble those of a medieval cathedral. One portrait in particular looks disconcertingly familiar. We're lost.

The girl pulls hard on my hand to stop and berate me. We trade insults, playfully. Something about her is strangely familiar, even as her features shift. We know each other well. _Am I her brother?_ We fall into laughter.

A faintly menacing male voice sends us scurrying for an alcove. We laugh silently, shaking so badly we have to cling to each other to muffle the sound. Something about this girl registers a welter of emotions and sensations, not all of which are fraternal. _Definitely not my sister._ The male voice had trailed off into the distance, and I and my accomplice have stopped quivering. She looks up at me, worried and uncertain.

_Who is she?_ A name on the tip of my tongue, burrowing inward despite my best efforts to reveal it. Try as I might, I can't draw it out.

I'm stuck between hilarity and shame, neither resulting directly from my present circumstances. One of her hands reaches timorously around my neck, another tentatively wraps around my waist, pulling me closer. She kisses me, gently, passionately. I'm pleasantly stunned. So much so I can scarcely respond. Her hands no longer hold me but force me back. She's crying but her eyes burn furiously into me. Within an instant, I'm shouting as hard as I can but noiselessly at her retreating back, her flowing hair the cruellest two-fingered salute I'd ever received. _I can almost make out her name..._

I awake with a start, the name caught between tongue and teeth. I hate dreams like this. Worst of all, I can scarcely remember them. What is it they say about questing dreams, that you are trying to comprehend subconsciously something that's eluded the waking mind? If only the images stayed long enough for me to analyse them, but the mere thought of starting a dream diary makes me shudder.

_Bugger!_ I fell asleep on the wet spot. Ginny's sleeping soundly on me, our arms still entwined about our bodies. My watch on the side table reads one o' clock. _Sodding hell!_ Ginny stirs with a groan when I tell her the time. She stumbles to the shower barely avoiding the furniture.

We get to Ron and Hermione's flat just on time. Ginny seems much more relaxed now, which worries me. She's not calm but detached. When I ask her what's bothering her, she smiles and replies that it's just nerves before meeting the family. _She's lying,_ a little voice says, _the smile doesn't reach her eyes._ Considering the circumstances, I decide not to press the point.

Her brothers and their wives are waiting to greet us at the door. _They're big._ Fred's a little broader than Ron, who is slightly taller, and both of them look pleased enough to meet me, but they are intimidating, nonetheless. Red hair is definitely a Weasley family trait. I give Ron and Fred each a fresh bottle of whisky with a smile and a firm handshake. Angelina takes Fred's bottle and appraises it to be adequate for consumption. From Hermione's demeanour, I appear to have given Ron a recently deceased polecat. Ron, however, claps me on the shoulder and leads us into the good-sized sitting room. I note Fred's expression is guarded. Ginny gives him a little glower out the corner of her eye. He just shrugs and follows her into the room.

Within minutes, the whisky's flowing and I'm milling with the brothers. Hermione casts the occasional anxious glance in my direction making me wonder what other gaffe I've committed. She's barely touched her glass of orange juice. Ron behaves strangely nervous around me as well, but is friendly enough. I think the drink is helping. Fred and Angelina are hilarious. They operate a joke shop somewhere in the city that, judging from his outlandish but well-tailored clothes and her flattering dress, is doing very well. I spend most of my time with them as Ginny talks to Hermione and Ron. All three of us are nursing our drinks carefully. I have no desire for an extended hang-over.

Suddenly Ron and Hermione spit their drinks on to Ginny's dress. Shock and astonishment cover their faces. Ginny, however, grins back at us other three, a devilish gleam in her eye. Fred and Angelina start laughing while I'm confused. 'Sit down, Harry,' Fred insists, 'and enjoy the rest of the show.' Hermione glares at Ron who blushes enough to shame a tomato before polishing off his glass. A firm female hand then guides a still smirking Ginny to the loo.

What have I gotten myself into?

---(Ginny's POV)---

I dream of a wasteland...

My body's shattered: at least two ribs are broken, as is my leg. Ears ringing. When I manage to sit upright and look at my surroundings, I empty my stomach. Bill lays lifeless beside me, bearing a shocked expression. Other faces come into focus as some of the effects of a concussion dissipate. Another bout of dry retching ensues. Eventually, I rise to my feet and limp towards the centre of devastation. I keep my eyes down, not wanting to see any more faces, but sometimes it's unavoidable. My blurred vision helps hide some of the horrors.

A gentle column of smoke rises in the midst of a charred copse. _That must be it._ I steel my heart, knowing what I will find. The stench of death no longer registers in my mind, except from the origin of the smoke. It's a man-shaped creature, hideously thin, blackened by fire. A silvery blade is sunken into its chest where its heart should be. Flame erupts around the wound. Ten feet away a young man lays supine. His legs are bent at odd angles, his arms charred, one bearing the remnant of a wand, his face blistered, but he is still familiar. A young woman sits next to him repeating the same refrain. 'He did it, he did it.'

I chant a similar refrain before pain and grief overwhelms me. 'He's dead, he's dead.'

I had that vision during the summer before my fifth year. Under a year later, it came true, of a sort. For Harry lays beneath me, enfolded within my embrace. It may be the last chance I have.

I'm spent. There are no tears left in me.

He whispers softly into my ear the time. More from a sense of duty than a desire for cleanliness I scramble to the shower. I despise this day already.

We try to make ourselves as presentable as we were before we left Edinburgh, but a certain amount of wrinkling and creasing was bound to remain. It's an imperfection that makes us more beautiful. I smile fully, honestly, for what feels like the last time as we vie for the mirror. Once more, he holds me and tells me how pretty I am, how much he loves me.

I can't bear it. But I pretend that these words are comforting rather than heartrending.

Ron and Hermione's Muggle flat away from home is in a beautiful neighbourhood with several parks and many trees. The black cab drops us off at the appointed hour and Harry walks, I trudge, our way to their door. Ron, Hermione, and Angelina welcome Harry heartily while Fred hangs back, lips ready to release a stinging barb. The gift, however, soothes Fred's temper somewhat and enlivens Ron's. Harry might as well have brought poison into the room as he gives Ron the whisky judging from Hermione's expression. Despite the annoyance I occasionally feel towards him, I can understand his nerves.

Noting Fred's angelic mien forewarning a particularly cruel prank is on the way, I glare at him out of the corner of my eye. One potential disaster is quelled.

As Hermione predicted, Ron's trying to drown his anxiety while Fred and Angelina take the occasional sip, determined to remain aware. Harry wisely follows suit. He also avoids his two oldest friends, likely misinterpreting their concern and repressed pleasure at seeing him as disapproval, or simply unnerving. Unintentionally, this means I'm stuck talking to Ron and Hermione.

'How's Harry,' she asks before quaffing a mouthful of orange juice. Ron's well on to his fourth shot. The opportunity is too good to deny.

'He's quite good in bed.' As expected, they both perform splendid fountain impressions on to my dress. That's when I turn to look at the other three. Harry is concerned that my dress is ruined, but for Fred and Angelina the tension is gone.

Hermione drags me into the loo to clean me up, and possibly my mouth as well. Ron, regrettably, seems quite attached to the bottle. She whips out her wand immediately from a hidden pocket in her dress to remove the stains on mine. I can't read her expression for a moment until she looks up, smiling.

'So he's not a fumbler?' I never thought she had it in her. I'm impressed.

'Well-trained by previous owners,' I affirm.

'That, er, doesn't bother you?' Despite the pause, she isn't truly embarrassed by the question or concerned about my response. She should have been.

'We're both adults.' I hear my voice begin to harden, my chest to heave in preparation for a good shout, but I keep my calm and aim for sarcasm. 'Besides, until two years ago, we were dead to one another.'

She flinches. 'You know I... we... all of us... what we thought was best...' In the past the spluttering may have moved me. Now that I am on the verge of losing him again and possibly forever, I let the rage course through my veins.

'Five years of hell you lot've put me through, and that's you're best explanation?' It's coming out as a whisper, but its harshness and my scowl bring tears to her eyes and buckle her knees. 'And what about him?' I demand, leaning towards her retreating frame and pointing towards the closed door. 'How do you think he'll feel about living a lie for that long?' _Oh, bugger._

She rounds on me immediately. I'm against the sink and her finger's bouncing off my chest with every syllable. Her gaze could vaporise a glacier. 'You still haven't told him?' My scowl hasn't softened, though.

'No.' I say it with enough menace to ensure an end to this discussion. At this, we both exhale heavily and look in opposite directions. _Calm down, the day's bad enough as it is without losing your best friend._

'Er, Ginny?' This time she looks genuinely panicked. 'I'm pregnant.' She has the gall to smile.

'Bully for you,' I answer as I open the door and head for one of the open bottles.

The rest of the evening follows without major incident, which is enough of a novelty in my family to warrant mentioning. The last time I came south, the three of us argued with such vehemence Angelina and Hermione left and didn't return until the following morning. Even then they walked around the flat expecting to find one, or all, of our bodies splayed on the floor, dead. A double to calm my screaming nerves was enough to push me through to eight o'clock. Fred and Harry shake hands and slap backs, while Angelina and Hermione shake his hand. Ron surprises us all by enveloping Harry, and later me, in a bear hug, failing to utter a single word.

As we wait on the pavement for the cab to come, I practise how I'll tell Harry that we've been living a lie for the past five years, that the last two years have been a sham.

I hope it never comes.


	5. The 'Janet and John' Bit

**There and Back Again Lane**

Ch. 5 – The 'Janetand John' Bit

---(Angelina's POV)---

One bottle rests empty on the coffee table while ours, barely touched, is in my hand. The two younger Weasleys have performed as expected, Ron by getting pissed and Ginny behaving like a sullen prat half the time – not as though I blame either of them. Hermione was glaring at Ron even before Harry and Ginny arrived determined to find fault with him. He was agitated enough without her encouragement. Ginny arrived jittery in spite of Harry's attentiveness that wavered under Ron and Hermione's constant barrage of nervous looks and odd questions. Hermione couldn't leave well enough alone, but Gin held her own for the longest while. Then it was bottle and glower. This bloody family can be an absolute disaster at times.

'Well, that was a rousing success,' Hermione announces to the room as Harry and Ginny make their way to the pavement, scowling at her husband who's using the wall for support. Fred takes pity on his brother and casts a few sobering charms.

'I dunno,' Fred retorts. 'Harry wasn't an arse, Ginny didn't hex anyone, and Ron here,' slapping his recovering sibling, 'seems to have enjoyed himself. Could've been a lot worse.' He shrugs at Hermione's look of utter disbelief.

'Ron is, was, completely pissed!' Hermione replies, pointing violently at her husband.

'Operative word, _was_,' rebukes Fred. 'Besides, you could've avoided arguing with Ginny.'

Things continue like this for ten minutes while Ron directs himself contritely towards making coffee and tea for us. I follow him in to assist and to avoid the bickering until it becomes unbearable. Besides, Ron probably needs a little more than coffee to prop him up right now.

'How are you doing, Ron?' Enough of an inflection from my Quidditch captain days sparks him to respond rather than ignore the question.

'Buggered if I know.' He slumps on to a chair at the kitchen table cradling his head in his hands. 'It was great to see Harry so happy, never thought I'd see him again.' He's smiling – a good sign. 'And Ginny.' His eyes mist over and he stares fixedly at the table top. 'What'd we do?'

No one ever told me about what happened to Harry after the night of the last battle. I'm surprised Ron or Hermione didn't involve Fred in it. Only a small circle involving those two, Remus, a few of the remaining Hogwarts professors, and of course a select group at St Mungo's and from the Ministry. After Ginny had informed us of Harry's continued existence, Fred nearly dismissed Remus until the latter explained the situation a bit better under condition of absolute secrecy. Fred didn't even tell me. Mind, Remus was in a right state after the battle himself.

The night Ginny told us changed a lot of things. For the first time in years she was genuinely happy, bouncing around the flat like a teenager. Fred lost confidence in Moony that has yet to be regained entirely. Ron and Hermione were made honorary Percys for about six months, a considerable amount of time for a family as tightly knit as the Weasleys. Fred became more guarded, his ideas for new products more sinister. None of _those_ entered general production, thankfully. He also began to have nightmares about the attack on Grimmauld Place that claimed his mother as well as the last battle itself. They and his new attitude put a dreadful strain on the marriage but we emerged tighter and stronger.

I don't think Fred honestly believes Harry was to blame for Mrs. Weasley's, Molly's, death. The Death Eaters would have attacked the Order's Headquarters whether or not Harry was there. His decision to try to play the hero once more by luring off the bastards instead of using one of the emergency portkeys immediately may have cost precious time, but possibly saved a few lives. Fred and George both accused Harry of dereliction to the family for not having warned them as he had about Arthur. That declaration, along with Harry's inevitable self-recrimination, led to a series of pleading letters from Ron to lay off. Ginny went straight to the twins' hearts with direct threats and hints of libel that might bring ruination to the firm. While the brothers were certain she wouldn't carry out the latter course of action, they had too much respect for her not to discount the former. By our second post-Hogwarts summer, both Fred and George had forgiven Harry. He had become more detached in the meantime, almost impersonal – not unfriendly, no longer yelling, just distant, closed.

Breaking free of memories, I ask Ron what he meant precisely, hoping for at least a modest morsel of information. Might as well have asked him for his Quidditch playbook. All he gives me is a morose little smile and a shake of the head. This bloody family.

We carry in the trays of tea and coffee back to the sitting room with the other two still in full fury. They're on the verge of tossing things, including the small vase I'd bought Hermione for her last birthday. 'Oi, shut it!' I've learned that one either needs passion or volume to get noticed in this family, and I've enough of both. 'And if that vase falls it won't be the only thing that breaks!'

Both Fred and Hermione glare at me but my glower ensures their silence, and Fred gingerly returns the vase to the mantle. 'What's the real problem, Hermione?' I cross my arms, thick from years of school and professional Quidditch, staring her down.

To her credit, Hermione doesn't quail. She slumps down into a chair and shakes her head, freeing a few strands of her brown hair from the straightening charm. 'Ginny's not told him.' She pauses. I doubt any of us, other than Hermione, thought Ginny would reveal herself as a witch before the wedding night. 'Anything.'

'You want us to tell him?' Fred suggests mischievously. 'Should it be the Janet and John bit or the unexpurgated version?'

Hermione flushes, her eyes full of livid rage, but all she manages is, 'Not one word, not one!'

He just grins. Then Ron astonishes us all by answering. 'We may have to.'

My, the carpet is rather fetching tonight.

---(Ginny's POV)---

I can't stop shaking my head as we wait outside Ron and Hermione's flat for the cab. The story I'm going to try to tell Harry is only half-formed in my mind, the basic structure outlined in broad strokes. Now that tale is competing with Hermione's annunciation – ha! – to put me in St Mungo's critical care facility.

'What did Hermione say to you?' The question shocks me out of my scheming.

'She's pregnant,' I blurt. Well, it's the truth.

'That's good to hear.' Purposefully indirect. 'Why does it upset you?'

_Damn. _Truth or lie? I think of regaling him with a dreadful story of a termination after, or resulting in, a horrendous break up, or some other excuse. _Anything but the truth,_ I beg myself. That's too much right now, however petty it might be. Dreams are often better scuttled in the Lethe than visited upon the world. The troubling thing is, I can't really think of an answer that floats. I think of all the couples, the grinning young marrieds, bearing their giggling sprogs in their arms as I tell myself I'm much too young for that shite. And I am, especially in my profession, right? But it's a half-truth. After tonight, it might not even be that. 'I'm surprised, is all.'

When I peer at his face, I can tell he's not convinced. And a little worried. 'You're not, are you?'

_That's all I need right now._ I thought we had discussed the possibility of children sometime before. I've been honest with him throughout our two years – excluding about his past, my job, and my nature – but I can't really be blamed for any of that, can I? It's in the International Confederation of Warlocks' Statute of Secrecy. Still, instinct takes over. 'And what if I was?' I spit rounding on him in self-righteous indignation. One more misspoken word, Potter...

'After how much we've been drinking this weekend, well...' He shrugs nervously. I'm sorely tempted to launch into a tirade about being an adult, responsible for my own actions, _et cetera, et cetera._ But the bastard's right and in my present state I hate him for it.

'No,' I mumble sullenly. The streets are busy, packed with tourists and the club set. _Ah, to be young and carefree,_ a sarcastic voice mutters. Even with my even odds, that's not a bet I'd want to make.

Harry may have tried to diffuse the situation by his awkward comment, but all the rage Hermione's announcement brought resurfaces. _Why would she think I'd want to hear something like that right now, on the night I'm going to ruin it all?_ She'd wrecked my life well enough five years ago; I guess she wanted to keep her perfect record. Uncharacteristically callous, as if being with my brother had an undue influence upon her. _Why would she think that Harry's death would make my life easier? Did she really believe a flick of the wand would solve anything?_ Harry begs forgiveness, but I haven't the patience anymore. His voice bears the remorse it did seven years ago when he'd forgotten of my possession by Tom Riddle, which only increases my discomfort.

The cab comes too quick, whisks me off to the interrogation cell. The story is half-formed in my mind, the basic structure outlined in broad strokes. The drink didn't cut deeply enough to dull the nerves I note as I cling desperately to the door. _Just a little twist of the wrist and I'll be able to get away, like a prisoner of war in those old movies Harry watches._ But he puts his hand on mine and squeezes it firmly. _Bastard._ Though I'm furious with him, and myself, I can't leave now, don't want to. He deserves the truth.

He slumps into the seat, shakes his head, and stares out his window. Still, _he doesn't let go._

We're minutes from the hotel. We should have taken the bus.

I've decided to tell Harry using the Muggle plaster method: one quick pull, some cursing, and it's all over. _It's all over..._ I shudder at the thought, but either he doesn't notice or is too angry to care.

---(Harry's POV)---

Ginny shudders. I'm tempted to put an arm around her and pull her close, but I've no desire to lose a limb. It's enough of a shock that she hasn't removed her hand from mine. I've never seen her so agitated, so quick to anger. My idiotic comments didn't help any, either. You would think after two years I'd be able to avoid the obvious missteps. Instead, it's onward to disaster. _She's put up with you for this long,_ a voice reminds me. _She must think you have something to offer._

It comes as a great relief when we finally reach the hotel. I glance over at her and smile and am pleasantly surprised when she smiles shakily back. Even so, she keeps her head down as we make our way to the room, though clutching my hand firmly. The worries with which I began this night return in full measure.

I wrench off my tie and jacket as soon as I'm able while Ginny walks to the bed and slumps down onto one corner. She clutches her hands so tightly I'm afraid she'll break both.

'Harry?' The tone of her voice surprises me. She's nervous, her eyes staring through me, unfocused.

'Yes?' She's scaring me now.

'I'm a,' a small sigh, 'a witch.'

She seems surprised that I'm completely unfazed by the revelation. Ever since she declared she was a holistic or homeopathic healer, whichever, I thought it highly probable she was into Wicca or something. So I decide to tease her. 'So, are you a white witch?' It's a bad joke, so I'm not astonished she doesn't respond.

From her purse she extracts a long piece of well-crafted wood that I presume to be her wand. A flick of her wrist later and she's cupping a small blue flame in her other hand. The incandescent ball doesn't stop burning when she puts it in water. 'Er...'

'This is just a minor trick,' she states flatly. 'Something similar to the Official Secrets Act prevents me and others like me from revealing what we are except under strict circumstances: self-defence, the defence of others, and marrying into non-magical families.' With the last category, she looked at me and smiled. 'We're not supposed to meddle in the world.'

'What's this law called, and how exactly are you _prevented_ from interfering?' My voice is shaking from anxiety and anger. The resignation evident in her tone and posture worries me, as does the anger threatening to burst forth from within me. I don't know why I'm angry, me for not being able to see the signs, fear of what else is she capable, or with her for waiting two sodding years to tell me, law be damned. This internal conflict keeps me somewhat calm.

She exhales heavily, knowing I'll not readily accept her answers. Bravely, she launches into a concise discussion of something called the International Confederation of Warlocks' Statute of Secrecy – if memory serves – and how all witches and wizards have to abide by its rules or be subject to the discipline of the local ministry of magic, its enforcement officers, and a wizards' court. Involuntarily, I snort in disbelief. She implores me to listen to what she has to say first (I nod) before condemning her. It's all too much. Though I sense a certain continuity within her tale, I'm entirely lost. And her use of the word _condemn_ unnerves me.

Hesitation strangles her words into a barely audible gasp. I demand in much too loud, too menacing a voice, like a parent hearing a half-heard insult, for her to repeat herself. I'm letting my nerves get the better of me. My outburst does, however, stiffen her resolve. 'I said,' her eyes boring furiously into mine, pushing me a few steps back, her delivery flat and charred with rage, 'will you accept that I'm a witch?' I only nod nervously and sit down in a nearby chair.

Ginny cradles her head in her hands, her red hair curtains her face. I move to her side and try to comfort her, but she pushes me away. She rises from the corner of the bed and paces around the room. 'Remember the questions I asked on the train?' she asks her hands.

'No.' I aim for non-committal and end up sounding stressed.

Another pause, but now she looks into my eyes fixing me in place. 'Do you remember our first big row? The toaster?'

'Yes.' Where is this going?

'Remember what happened to your computer the time I sat in your lap?' Her voice is stern and professional. _Police-like._ I'm feeling distinctly uncomfortable. I nod and glare at her. 'Had anything like that ever happened before?'

'I dunno.'

'What led Siobhan to break it off?' I really don't like her talking to me like this. Maybe I should have a solicitor present. 'Anything in particular?'

'Why?'

'Please, Harry, just answer my question.' There's enough emotion in the voice to think she's back here with me, that I'm not in some damn interrogation cell.

'The carafe for the coffee maker exploded next to me,' I reply. 'Apparently I'd switched it on without having put in any water.'

'Was it turned on?' Back to the detective's voice. I feel like I'm in the midst of some terrible film noir.

'Er, no.'

She stood rigidly before me. Without looking, I feel her eyes upon me. 'Harry, you were, you are, a wizard.' She's imploring me to believe this statement. Instead, I laugh.

'I'm a chemist.'

'You're that, too,' The edge in her voice has gone brittle.

'I am not some bloody magician, or what-have-you.' The declaration does not drive this reverie from her. She peers sadly into my eyes. 'I'm just me, no special powers or anything. Look: hocus-pocus, jiggery-pokery.' I'm gesticulating like a cretin. 'See? Nothing.'

'Then how did the toaster catch fire, the carafe shatter, when neither of them were switched on?'

'Maybe there was a power surge,' I offer. This isn't going at all well.

'You might call it that,' she answers with a grimace. 'We call it _accidental magic_.'

'What's that when it's at home?'

'It happens when a witch or wizard loses their emotional control, something like a, er...' She begins snapping her fingers, unable to think of the term.

'Short circuit?'

'Yes!' She sounds genuinely pleased, probably thought I understood what she was saying, which only made what I said, automatically, next even worse.

'Bollocks.'

She deflates completely. 'No, Harry, it's the truth.'

'How do you know that?' It's more a demand than a question. A part of me still thinks this is probably the most elaborate practical joke ever pulled. That part's determined to see whether she can maintain the gag's logical consistency.

She sits next to me on the corner of the bed again and stares at her hands as they wring themselves raw. 'Remember when we first met we both seemed to recognise one another, and I said we were old schoolmates.' Her voice is hoarse but she doesn't wait for me to respond. 'That was the truth.'

I snort. Now I'm supposed to have been some sort of sorceror's apprentice. Ginny could have just called off the wedding. Another voice in my head tells me to continue listening and not to be so harsh. Finally, she looks me in the face. 'We were fellow students at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.'

I'm sorry. That's just too much. I'm rolling on the bed, doubled over with laughter. One glance at her face, contorted in her misery, stops me.

'But I went to grammar school in Surrey,' I plead. 'I've the certificates and everything, O levels, A levels. I never went to any bloody Hogwarts.'

'You did.' Her voice is flat and alarmingly stern, professional. She collects three letters from her luggage and hands me them, one telling me that I'd been accepted to that magicians' school while the other two informing whomever of what I assume are test results. She explains to me their marking scheme and their certification tests, that OWLs are the equivalent of O levels, NEWTs of A levels. My head's spinning, but I manage not to laugh this time.

'I must not've been a very good student,' I quip, though knowing I hadn't done much better at grammar school. The subjects did not seem at all familiar to me. 'I was pretty dreadful at Potions – is that like chemistry?'

'No and in a way,' she mutters. 'Alchemy is probably a closer analogy.'

What have I got myself into? 'Right.'

I'm willing to agree that she's extraordinary in a brand new way now. No one would believe that I'm marrying a witch – I probably can't even tell anyone that, anyway – but to say that I'm a wizard is plainly ridiculous.

'I don't remember any of this,' I declare rising from the bed, throwing the letters on to a side table. 'I do recall going to school in Surrey, being in hospital, completing my degree in Edinburgh.' I'm trying to find an escape route from this argument. 'I remember us. Can't that be enough?'

'I'm not asking you to remember for me, Harry,' she avers, 'but because of what you're again becoming.' She pats the space next to her on the bed, but I remain standing. Her hair hides her expression once more before she seeks my eyes. 'You are becoming a threat to yourself and others.' I wince and clench my jaw at that statement. 'It's not intentional,' she states calmly, placating me, 'but you need to master the gifts that are reasserting themselves. The best, the simplest way of doing that is by remembering who you are.'

'Then why can't I remember?'

---(Ginny's POV)---

Harry finally asks the question I've been dreading for two years.

'Because certain people decided it would be better for you to forget.' I don't expect him to react. He's treating this revelation like a scholarly debate, trying to find errors in my reasoning, missed numbers or concepts in my calculations. 'Because you had suffered enough, and they believed you were about to lose more.'

'What do you mean?' Simple question, loaded with possible answers.

I insist that he's rolls up one of his sleeves past his elbow and compare the differences in coloration. He replies that was from the skin grafts he'd received after the car crash that claimed his parents. His face betrayed some distrust with that long held belief. No graft could be that perfect, some scarring was inevitable. When he looks back at me, a cold fury burns.

'Who might decide it'd be better that I forget?' He's still not convinced by my story. I wouldn't be were I in his place. Still, his voice bears the weight of suspicion for which I'm the only available target.

'I can't say.'

'Who?' The tone is brittle, crackles with menace.

I've only seen the new Harry this mad once before. We were in Edinburgh playing a pick-up game of football with a few of his friends and a couple of newcomers. One of the new lads checked me a little over-enthusiastically, sending me sprawling. Only memories of Quidditch and Auror training prevented me from sustaining a worse injury. I was about to use a little more of that training on him when Harry strode over demanding an apology for me. This lad was about twice Harry's size, but he initially wavered from responding when met with the voice and the glower. The bloke finally told Harry off and left the park with a broken nose and a couple of chipped teeth. He never came back after that. That said, I could take Harry and he's seen enough of my temper to know it.

'I. Can't. Say.' I match his anger and bitterness. _Try anything, Potter, and you'll rue the day._

'Bollocks.' He spins around and sits back down in the chair opposite. I don't know whether he means my story or that I'm unable to tell him. It's true, though, all of it. Hermione's concluding charm seals my lips, and in any case I wouldn't want to be responsible for Harry going over there in this state even if she wasn't pregnant. I'm more terrified for Ron's sake, though. But he just hangs his head in his hands.

---(Harry's POV)---

I'm disgusted with myself trying to bully the information out of her. Even if, _especially_ if, I thought it would've worked, I shouldn't have tried. We've rowed, hurled insults cavalierly at one another, but never before did I have the impression she thought I'd hit her. I'm desperate to leave this room, everything, to get that image out of my head.

I remember when we got home from that pick-up game, after the incident, I sat quavering in the kitchen as Ginny took her shower. Though I felt the bastard deserved to be knocked down a few pegs, I could've, should've done it differently.

Grabbing my coat, I'm ready to leave, but she stops me.

'Harry, I'd tell you if I could.' I let go of the doorknob. I do believe her.

She's still sitting on the edge of the bed, her eyes raw, imploring me to stay. 'I can, if you wish, make you forget this conversation and all about me.' Her defeated tone wounds me, and I understand that the offer was made with the best intentions, but her words are a betrayal. My anger writhes to the tip of my tongue as I seek to master it.

'Don't you fucking understand? That's why we're in this mess, isn't it? Some bloody idiot thinking they knew what's best, swinging sticks about and imagining that the world would right itself, that everybody would either suddenly be too happy or too damn stupid to know the fucking difference. The last thing I need right now is someone messing about in there,' poking my temple vigorously with my index finger. 'Especially you.' I wrench open the door and seethe my way to the lift.

After all we'd been through, she'd take that away from me? Not bloody likely.

---(Ginny's POV)---

_That went swimmingly._

I flop down on the bed, dead to the world except for his last words. What did he mean, _especially you?_ My eyes catch the half-empty whisky bottle peering out of a carrier bag, but I decide that if things are to be made right I'll need all my faculties. A few flicks of the wand and my bag is packed.

I wait until midnight, giving him enough time for the pubs to close to come back. A catnap later and two o'clock comes round. If I stay here any longer I'll never be able to make it.

Hedwig in hand, I apparate to Edinburgh.


	6. Meanwhile, at the Bar, the Drunkard Muse...

**There and Back Again Lane**

Ch. 6 – Meanwhile, at the Bar, the Drunkard Muses

_O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams._

–Hamlet, _Hamlet,_ Act II, scene 2

**

* * *

**

London

---(Ron's POV)---

I can't believe I just said that. _We may have to._ Haven't we done enough to make them miserable? I'm wishing the whisky was still coursing through me, but I don't think Hermione would've let me survive the night.

Over five years have passed since the night Harry defeated Voldemort – even thinking of his name is still hard after all this time – and I've not had a moment's peace since. Perhaps you could even say my troubles began two years earlier, when in my addled state I'd summoned that brain in the Department of Mysteries. The battle alone would have forced anyone to grow up, but that _thing_ strangled my youth and left me with scars I sport to this day. The burdensome acknowledgement of mortality led me to make some quick decisions, sometimes good – like finally mustering enough courage to ask out Hermione – other times ill.

Five years ago things seemed much different. He'd been destroyed, but many of our friends and other loved ones had died along the way. Harry was little better than dead, and only about twenty people knew he'd managed that feat. In the end, to protect him from the inevitable assault from the remaining Death Eaters and well-wishers alike, we decided to lay our Harry to rest. But not one hour ago I embraced him as a long-lost brother. We did what we thought was best and were visited by his revenant.Though I'm supposed to be one of the main conspirators in this fiasco, I have a few questions myself.

Very little was explained to me at the time. I assume they thought I was either too thick or in too much pain to understand. Perhaps they believed I would disagree with them. The only reason I went along with their scheme was because Harry was in such agony. Even if he recovered physically, he would be an emotional catastrophe. We were afraid that he'd try to injure himself or others – you weren't there at his bedside, you didn't hear all the things he said – that all the deaths would overwhelm him, leaving him but a brittle shell hidden away in the Janus Thickey ward along with Neville's parents. After all the Healers' diagnoses, we believed he was left a Squib, robbed of even the ability to enjoy his freedom in some measure, or to defend himself in the still dangerous environment. He had no future in the wizarding world, and none possible in the Muggle world. We – though when I say 'we,' I really mean 'they' – gave him some hope by providing him with a Muggle past and a hope for happiness. Hermione, Professor Flitwick, Harry's Healers, and a few Ministry officials concocted an intensive treatment consisting of a cornucopia of potions and spells as well as a cobbled together past mixing fact with fiction, sealing it with a Fidelius charm. _How could it go wrong,_ we thought. Yes, _we._ Like a fool, I agreed with them.

You might think what we did was cruel, especially keeping it from Fred and Ginny. Considering the information we had, which wasn't the best I can admit now, it was for the best. Fred was in no state to make any decision, especially regarding Harry. How he'd attacked Harry after Mum died. George was slightly more restrained, Fred was out for blood. With George's death in the last battle, who knew how Fred would react?

Ginny, murmuring in a potion-soaked haze, was convinced Harry had died, that she had seen it. Hermione refuted the last bit, insisting that Ginny had been nowhere nearby in the last minutes before the defeat. Furthermore, my sister's condition was poor at the time. The Healers mended the injuries to her body without much problem, but she received regular doses of potions to heal some of the mental blows. Now it's obvious much of that treatment could have been avoided just by telling her Harry had survived. Regrettably, neither Hermione nor I, nor Remus for that matter, were in much of a state to refuse the advice of the medi-wizards and -witches. In her capacity as executrix of our Harry's unwritten living will, Hermione decided leaving Ginny in the dark was for the best. I didn't disagree. With what we thought was the rapid disintegration of Ginny and Harry's friendship a short while before the battle, we seemed to have enough cause to warrant that decision.

Upon reflection, however, we misconstrued their situation. They cared for each other very much but were too proud to demonstrate that affection after our disastrous sixth year. The seventh year was equally vicious. By then Harry's heart had hardened enough that he rarely displayed any unintentional emotion whatsoever. Ginny had also become sterner over the years. To her jealous boyfriends, she insisted Harry was just a surrogate brother. Besides, she had enough troubles managing all of her schoolwork, Quidditch, and the occasional extra Seeker practice with the still-banned Harry. As he watched her manoeuvre through the sky, he would muse aloud that it was good someone Sirius loved was making use of the Firebolt. Unable to play the sport he loved, he concentrated more on DA meetings, Occlumency, and supplementary defence classes that amounted to preparatory Auror training. After one practice in late May, though, Harry came back to the common room early fit to murder any poor sod who crossed his path. Nobody dared. An hour later, Ginny returned in a slightly better mood, kicking a chair halfway across the room. Hermione inquired about what had gone wrong, but my sister only grunted and thundered up to the girls' dormitories, Firebolt in hand. Three years later, when she flooed us about finding Harry, we learned that they had argued about what Ginny had Seen. He trusted her too much to disbelieve her as she'd feared. He refused to be swayed, however, telling her Trelawney's prediction verbatim, something he had never told us. Death, he declared, was a price worth paying to finally destroy Voldemort, if necessary. She didn't relate what transpired after that exchange.

Hermione still demanded a fresh set of examinations on Harry to determine whether his lack of magical ability was simply temporary before acceding in our name to the pressure of the Healers and Obliviators. Over the bed where he lay bandaged and heavily sedated, she accepted what we all felt was the will of fate. That night, the Obliviators, under the supervision of the Healers, altered Harry's memories of the previous seven years. She insisted on being the one to complete the patchwork of spells with the requisite charm, telling no one who the secret-keeper would be.

Two years later, part-way through her studies as a Healer, Hermione inspected the methods, procedures, and results of the examinations. The tests were shoddily conducted and entirely inconclusive. This discovery crippled our relationship.

Though we knew we had committed a grave injustice against our best friend, we hadn't the means to correct it: as neither of us was the secret-keeper, we didn't know where Harry was and could not tell others he was alive.

Then Ginny found him.

---(Fred's POV)---

It's about ten by the time we leave Ron and Hermione's. I decide to do Ginny's dirty work for her, though I know she'll hate me for it. Ange floos home while I cab it to their hotel. It's a pity, though, as I'm rather fond of the new Harry. When I find their hotel and ask the concierge about them at the desk, I discover Harry left a short while before I'd arrived. Once a bastard...

I find him in the pub closest to the hotel ensconced alone within a cramped booth scowling at the four empty pint glasses before him. After a visit to the bar for a couple of lagers I sit opposite him.

''Lo, Harry.'

He looks up at me with glassy eyes, sees the lagers and smiles. 'Cheers, Fred.'

'What brings you to this neck of our fair city?' I chide him, grinning. _Ginny must have told him, and the bastard scarpered. Good riddance._ At least he has the decency of appearing miserable, genuinely distraught.

He leans forward, carefully pushing the empties aside. 'So, I assume you're one of them, too.'

I feel my face hardening into a frown even before his words fully register. 'Yeah.' My free hand clenches into a fist. _Just as I thought, the little tosser has no bottle._

His jaw tenses to counter my own. 'Do you know who's responsible for my amnesia?' he demands, his brow furrowing deeply. Seems to think he's ready for a fight, despite the drink. Ginny receives an 'E' for effort; pity it's wasted on this git.

'Can't say.' I relax as he rolls his eyes and slumps back into his seat, downing half the pint I bought him.

'Makes two of you.'

'Why'd you leave, you little shit.' No sense being polite now. If he can be this much of a prat, I'd rather see him get as far from my family as possible.

'Who said anything about _leave_?' he replies venomously. 'I'm out for a bit of fresh air,' he continues, waving his free hand about the air blue with smoke. Then his eyes narrow, the haze before them vanishes and is replaced by an iron resolve. 'I don't give a rat's arse what you think of me, Fred. Unless you've a decent reason for me to bugger off out of your sister's life, keep your opinions to yourself.' He finishes the pint and slaps a fiver on the table. 'Thanks for the drink. Now sod off.'

I don't, of course. The fiver is a painful reminder the thousand galleons he gave us to start the Wizarding Wheezes. I'm a second from pounding his face into the table. Instead, I tell him why he should stay away from Ginny. 'Reasons, eh?' I show my hand in front of my face. 'First, you drink too much. Second, you've no sense of humour. Third, you're a complete arse. Fourth, you've no appreciation for what you have.' I clench the hand into a fist in front of me. 'And fifth, if you go near her again, I'll thump you.'

'Shall we go now, or do you want to finish your pint?' When I don't answer, he continues. 'Look, what would you do if someone tells you the last twelve years of your life were a fabrication, a mix of falsified memories and lies, that the woman you loved for two years isn't whom you thought she was, that she's been lying to you all these years?' He pauses putting both of his hands flat on the table before him. 'I don't care she's a...' he breaks off, glancing round the room to make sure no one is listening, 'a you-know. I can live with her not telling me 'til now. Secrecy and all that. Fine. Then she offers to wipe the past two years all away, as if they meant nothing.' I can actually see a tear dribbling down his face. It's appalling. 'Wouldn't you want a drink after that?'

Annoyingly, I can't help but agree with him. 'I'll let you off this time,' I reply, smiling faintly.

'Good. I rather like remaining intact.' He grins back. _Maybe not such a bad bloke after all._ I suggest instead a short walk to sober him up, to which he nods in agreement. I still pocket the fiver.

We walk through the city saying very little to one another. At first, I think he's just being a sullen little git, until I notice his green-tinged pallor. I tell him a joke I'd recently heard from Dean Thomas and Harry begins to laugh then hurl, politely away from either of us, into an alleyway. Although he declares me an evil bastard, he smiles, tossing his ruined handkerchief into a nearby bin. Maybe he has a sense of humour after all, even though the joke wasn't quite that good.

I ask him why he still thinks himself to be good enough for Ginny. He begins with some rigmarole about education, his parents' legacy, and decent job prospects before ending abruptly staring numbly into the distance. 'I don't know anymore,' he mumbles, shaking his head.

'Do you still want to marry her?'

'Yes, of course,' speaking to his shoes. 'No idea what I'd do without her.'

'What if she leaves you after tonight?'

He rounds on me quick. Thinking he's aiming to hit me, I ready my arm for a punch, but he just looks anxious. 'Did she say something?'

'No,' I answer, relaxing. 'I went to the hotel and found out you'd buggered off.'

He turns back to the street ahead of us and begins walking. 'I guess it'd depend whether it was for good or to collect herself.'

We continue talking about Ginny and why he wants to be with her. It's a very uncomfortable conversation for both of us. He asks me general questions about his past that I can only answer vaguely, some of which aren't in my ken, while others would likely require too many explanations to make sense. At the end of a couple of hours in the din of some obscure all-night coffee bar, he manages to convince me. We leave at about half-past one for the hotel, shaking hands firmly, fraternally.

It's a pity it's all over.

---(Harry's POV)---

The hotel room's empty when I arrive. Only the barest trace of her scent is in the air. I ring the flat and her mobile but she's either not there or doesn't bother to answer. I ring the concierge, but she says Ginny never left. It takes all the patience I have not to throw the telephone across the room.

With my suitcase packed, I reserve a ticket on the 6.15 train to Edinburgh using the hotel's guest access computer. It's a long walk to King's Cross with a suitcase, but I make it to the station before the sun rises.

Once seated on the train, I fall into a fitful slumber.

In my dream, all hell has broken loose.

'Bollocks,' I grumble. The ceiling's stones look a little dirtier these days. I wonder whether the cleaning staff even bothers any more. _Blurry, too._ I moan, numb arms flailing for my glasses. 'Bloody buggering bollocks,' gasping in agony as my back continues to spasm while my legs thrust out to counter what felt like a pair of monstrous charley horses. 'Sodding, damnable bollocks.' _Hey, I've made it to my feet,_ a voice exclaims. 'Bugger off,' I mumble, still wavering between the horizontal and vertical. Sounds are slowly becoming noticeable, distinguishable. Loud, despite the ringing in my ears. Had I not been here, wherever here is, I would swear this was a gas explosion. Looks like a pub. _Bomb?_ Something crackles just past my ear and I drop to the ground. Utter bloody agony;_ must have broken ribs._ I curl reflexively into a foetal position against the pain which only makes it worse. Someone's walking towards me. I point something at him and he drops. _What was that?_ I roll on to my back.

I hear people slowly, carefully getting up around me. Chaos reigns outside, too. I can't see or hear anybody. Suddenly a pretty redheaded girl looks at me upside down. Her face is dirty and cut, but not too badly. 'Ginny,' I mutter, 'you look bloody terrible.' I try to laugh, but all that comes out is a hacking wheeze. 'What a charmer, Potter,' she retorts. 'Lay still.' She gently pushes me back on to the floor, checks my pulse, and searches for further injuries.

I mumble that my ribs are broken, and ask about a couple of friends.

'Unconscious but otherwise just scrapes and bruises,' she answers, returning to face me.

'Tha's good,' I whisper before falling unconscious.

I think it is, was early February. I'm beginning to remember.

**

* * *

**

Edinburgh

---(Ginny's POV)---

Harry rings the flat and then my mobile at about 2.15. Though I don't pick either up, I know it's him. I've no desire to hear him drunkenly castigate me for this fiasco.

Instead, I collect my things and prepare to leave this city for good. I've no idea where I'll go, but with a few weeks holiday saved for, well, I could probably get far away. Back to London, maybe to Bath, even to Glasgow. I don't know.

I think of leaving a note, but I'm just too tired from the drink, the argument, and the apparating. Without bothering to change, I fall asleep on our, his, bed.

Back into the past.

We're in that corridor. Harry insisted we take the right hallway, and like a fool, I didn't argue. The portrait of Rab McGillivray winks at me before the bludger sends him reeling back to earth for the umpteenth time. Without that bloody map, the boy has no sense of direction. Although maybe it was the stunner Neville had practised on him.

'Potter, you prat!' I grumble. 'We should have taken the left staircase!'

'Git,' he replies with a smirk.

'Nutter.' Mutter and grin.

'Berk.'

'Tosser.'

'No need to get personal, now,' he answers. 'Harridan.'

I can't suppress a laugh. 'I'm not old!'

'So you admit you're foul-tempered?' I slap his arm, hard. Which brings us to Mrs. Norris's attention.

We hear Filch stumbling his way through the corridors hot on Mrs. Norris's trial. I cast a silencing charm on the pair of us as we hide in an alcove. _God, it's so comfortable in his arms._ When I pull away from him after Filch blunders up the left staircase, there's an odd look in his face that puzzles me. Still, how often do you get the object of your affection trapped in a secluded alcove? I do what demands to be done, hesitantly at first. _But his lips are so warm, so soft._ And, as they say, it'll all end in tears. I remember the vision of his body broken on the ground and break away, furious with myself for having given in to temptation and with him for not having the decency – or having too much – to respond. Cursing volumes in silence, I make my way back to the common room.

The next day we apologise to one another. I can't tell him how much that kiss meant to me, how much and how long I wanted to do that. He playfully flirts with me, but it means nothing. He leaves smiling. My heart goes with him.

My heart went with him.


	7. Hospital of the Transfiguration

**There and Back Again Lane**

Ch. 7 – Hospital of the Transfiguration

_You might very well think that. I couldn't possibly comment._

–Francis Urquhart, in Michael Dobbs's _House of Cards_

---(Hermione's POV)---

You've no right to judge me. You were probably safely abed while we risked our lives.

You weren't there the night of the last battle, the stench of death covering the world in its stifling blanket, the bodies of those you loved tossed about the broken earth, cast away mercilessly, seeming to have been purchased so cheaply, eyes vacant, expressions pleading, shocked. None of it was right.

You weren't there at St Mungo's as Harry strained against magical restraints, screamed through blistered lips names, imprecations, curses, orders, in spite of all the potions and salves. They only dulled his suffering instead of drowning it. Over time, he might have recovered to some measure of normalcy, but how many years would that have taken? _No, it's not a justification; but it's the truth._

I had been misled. That is also the truth.

After the battle, none of us was in any condition to decide anything rationally. We had all lost too much. The physical injuries took long enough to heal. I had, somehow, managed to avoid more blows than most. Succeeded in getting to his side in the final moments as he closed the distance between him and Voldemort, wands linked by a burning silver ribbon, mustering his will and that of Riddle's remnant through holly and phoenix feather. A haunting, preternatural laugh burst from his lips as he plunged Gryffindor's sword, still bearing hints of the basilisk's blood, into the heir of Slytherin's chest, forcing it in deeper even as his arms were consumed.

I crawled beside him in his final moments of consciousness, as death finally leeched the bitter shards of Voldemort's soul back to the Inferno that creature deserved. Amidst the horror, the reek of decay and betrayal, the loss of so many, I felt nothing, thought of nothing, but joy. _It was wrong._ But Harry had freed us, freed himself from the cruel fate that threatened to crush us all. Yet his laughter hadn't been triumphal; it had been brittle with sorrow.

Ginny came later, limping, bleeding profusely from a head wound, hair caked to her face. My lips were moving, but I've no idea what I was saying. Odd, that. I hadn't even realised she was nearby until I heard her voice through the din as the Order subdued the last pockets of resistance. It was barely a whisper that she croaked, but I caught it plainly before she collapsed. I couldn't believe what she said. He'd, _we_ had, come too far for that. But she had announced it with such conviction. Half-remembered first aid lessons proved her wrong. Harry hadn't died, though his injuries were severe enough. He needed immediate removal to St Mungo's, as did Ron, Ginny, and Remus. Shock would likely kill him before assistance came. With great effort, I dragged Ginny over to Harry and collected Ron and Remus. Ron was thankfully dazed as the sight of his sister in that state might have killed him. Pettigrew's silver hand made a dreadful mess of Remus's chest before our former professor finally exacted the Marauders' revenge upon the traitor. Wrenching the sword from the cinders that had been Voldemort, I made a portkey with my last reserves of strength to take us to St Mungo's.

I woke in a comfortable bed. _How many hours or days had I slept?_ Shabby curtains shielded me from my wardmates. Potions dulled the pain and my senses, ranging from an egregious headache to the reopened scar across my chest Dolohov had given me in our fifth year. Even in my condition, I was the one to whom they came about Harry. Professor Flitwick ensured that the Healers wouldn't bother me at least until I was ambulatory after that first late night visit.

Ron had regained consciousness as well, but was learning about the hideous toll taken upon his family. A quick word with a sympathetic Amelia Bones assured the two of us a private room. Remus was much worse, but improving. Ginny should have been getting better, but the Healers were barely able to stabilise her. And Harry. _Oh, Harry._

When Ron and I were finally allowed out of our beds, we sought Harry out. His arms were covered in bandages steeped in a peculiar smelling solution, spells alone having failed to fully complete their recovery. A Ferrula charm bound his shattered legs that could only be repaired gradually with small doses of Skele-Grow lest he go back into shock. A foul scented salve on his face had reduced the blisters markedly so that Harry was recognisable again. Except. Except that his face was the graven image of despair, of pain. And the shouting.

Though the Healers had warned us about Harry's occasional outbursts, we recoiled when first heard Harry's scarred voice rasping out orders. After a while he would stop, blood trickling down the corners of his lips. On seeing the blood, I had Ron fetch a Healer. When Harry started speaking again, I wished that I'd followed Ron. The names of our friends and the means of their deaths in gruesome detail. He had felt them, seen them all through Voldemort's eyes. The Healer, scurrying along in Ron's wake, force-fed Harry a pair of potions. Yet, however horrible it was to hear Harry recount the battle, the silence that replaced his words was eerier, more chilling. As if memory itself was being killed.

Don't judge me. Not yet.

He pleaded for release. For death. After all he had done... No, that would have been too cruel. He deserved to survive, to have a _life_ finally.

A kernel of Voldemort must have remained within him, twisted his soul in some way as he plotted revenge in mumbled schemes against the remaining Death Eaters. Cursed the Healers who failed to relieve his pain. Argued with Sirius. And Ginny. We learned to flinch whenever he said her name. The words that streamed forth after her name were disjointed, flurried, and terrifying, the incoherent babblings of a madman. A maelstrom of violent images made worse by his contorted visage and gritted teeth. He spat the words, his arms over-powering the magical restraints before new doses could be administered. We couldn't believe such words could come out of Harry, especially against Ginny. True, they couldn't look at one another without scowling and muttering after their argument that May. We could never have imagined the rupturing of their friendship had bred hatred that ran so deeply.

_If only we had listened more carefully._

They needed time to recover. To know the other had survived.

We didn't have much time, though. Voldemort's demise didn't stop the Death Eaters, who sought vengeance upon the Order and Harry in particular. While their numbers had been reduced drastically, they used guerrilla tactics to draw Aurors from St Mungo's. Attacks on Muggles, on wizarding families. Our side caught some of the swine, but we lost more friends. We were there when the Order brought in Luna's father. It wasn't enough he'd lost his daughter in the battle, they had to torture the man further. Neville captured the scum, more pity them. The attacks were becoming more severe and widespread. The Ministry scrambled to find a solution to its problems.

Harry confronted the Healers at St Mungo's with other problems. According to their tests, he had become a Squib. A certain _latent magical character_ – whatever that means – resided within him, but not so much that he could be a functioning member of wizarding society. They suspected that, along with his mother's protection, saved him from Voldemort's killing curse, that his magical ability resulted from that unintentional transference of power. I ought to have known this was all phrenology. I demanded that I at least observe their tests, that some form of independent inspection be applied, but my comments were wasted upon their and the Ministry's ears. Without the weight of Dumbledore knowledge to bolster my arguments, I faltered. _I failed._ I ought to have presumed some form of collusion at the time, but circumstances overwhelmed me. After all the losses we had suffered and continued to witness, there was no one who could refute their arguments.

I resisted as long as I could against their browbeating, Harry's suffering, and Ginny's mumbled pleas. Ron, terrified of what might happen to his sister but disgusted by what the Healers and the Ministry proposed, couldn't decide. I can't blame him for his indecision or even his lack of courage at that moment. He had lost so much in two short years. Remus was too drugged most of the time, and dismissed as a dangerous beast the rest. He was the only one of the three of us who had sufficient learning to have ridiculed their fabrications. Professor Flitwick meant well, but replacing Dumbledore was an impossible task for one person to manage. Ensuring Hogwarts's defences was difficult in those times, and the coordination between the Order and the Ministry was becoming increasingly strained as ambitious young replacements sought to chart their own courses. Without Dumbledore's presence, everything was going pear-shaped.

Harry would have no respite in the wizarding world as a Squib. With all the Death Eater attacks, he'd be fortunate to survive a week on his own. It wouldn't be fair to the young man who defeated Voldemort to deliver him so readily, so defenceless into the clutches of the enemy. Even if he was able to escape the Death Eaters, he would likely fall prey to economic circumstances. Harry had only so much of his parents' legacy left. A good portion of his young life had been spent becoming a wizard, now that he didn't have that as a career option, he had nothing. The Ministry, in connection with several Muggle ministries, would provide him both a past and a future. The Fidelius charm and the commonness of his name would protect Harry from wizarding miscreants. He wouldn't have any more nightmares, no more memories haunting his present. It seemed an enviable course of treatment even though we would lose him. The thought of his loss kept me fighting against the Ministry and the Healers, but I was wavering.

After demanding a new set of tests to follow the who-knows-how-many that preceded it, and an especially horrible night for Harry, I succumbed and acceded to their schemes. I ought to have held out, insisted that they find a safehouse where we could take care of him. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement repudiated any and all such plans, stating such things were difficult enough before the war, that they couldn't guarantee our protection. It didn't help that one of Fudge's cronies was Head of Department. Lucretia Perkins. I swear, he dredged his supporters from particularly polluted parts of the Thames. _I should have known._

Their idea was simple. The Healers would continue to heal Harry's physical injuries at St Mungo's until it was safe – when it was certain no surgeons would be required – to transfer him to a Muggle hospital. The Obliviators, however, would only wait until he was well enough to accept the memory charms without relapse. Harry, regrettably, was at that stage. Perkins also wanted a Ministry official to perform the Fidelius charm on Harry, but there I finally won. I had to appeal to Minister Bones, yet she acquiesced to allowing me to perform the spell and to name the secret-keeper. Good to see Madam Bones didn't trust her junior minister, either. When the Healers finally permitted the over-eager Obliviators to proceed, Ginny's doses had fallen to two a day. She was starting to regain weight. _If only we had waited a week._ Harry, however, hadn't improved psychologically. If anything, he had become more combative as he regained his health. He had also stopped grunting about Ginny.

When the 'treatment' was over, Harry was placid. Docile. On a recent visit to my parents, we watched an old American film on the telly, _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest._ Substituting Obliviation for electro-shock, Harry had become McMurphy. I remember vomiting and heaving for a good ten minutes after the final scenes. Ron explained it was morning sickness. He'd noticed the similarity, too.

We were able to visit Harry a couple of times after the obliviation. I couldn't stop crying both times, wondering in what I had participated. Fortunately, he'd been sleeping. _The Ministry should have given us the time to decide, I should have fought them harder._ I had little energy left, though. After the battle, the continued Death Eater attacks, a month of endless badgering by staff from St Mungo's and the Ministry, how could I?

I finally had my opportunity to inspect St Mungo's tests on Harry in my second year of Healer training. St Mungo's administrators had granted us access to archived patient records so I and my fellow apprentice Healers could scrutinise methods of treatment. I had to use Ministry connections, knowledge of obscure regulations, and a date with the file clerk (_ugh_) to secure his files from the archives. What I uncovered froze my soul. Phrenology wasn't far off the level of charlatanry practised by Harry's Healers. They examined whether stressors would induce him to perform accidental magic while he was in a potion-sodden haze. More obscure studies according to dubious methodology found their way into the regular course of his treatment. Healers falsified results when the data didn't conform to expectations – mainly because the experiments themselves were flawed – demonstrating their collusion, negligence, incompetence, and a repugnant disregard for medical ethics. There were rare negative diagnoses that followed proper procedure, but most of those were taken soon after his arrival from the battle.

Frightened and appalled by what I'd found, I told Ron. I don't know why I'd expected him to behave differently. He exploded, screaming at me until he was purple in the face before crumpling into a chair moaning why he'd agreed to the procedure. I tried to console him, but he wouldn't let me near him. Eventually, he rose and exited the flat, but not before breaking his hand on the door jamb. I doubt he would have noticed if it weren't for the difficulty he had opening the door. He refused all contact with me for almost two months except to call off the wedding. After two weeks of our separation, I'd miscarried. Ron hadn't even known I was pregnant. Ginny stayed with me for the next six weeks though I drove her mad. She managed to exact her revenge on Ron, though. I'm amazed it took two months for him to return after the campaign she waged against him. He broke completely when she told him – after ferreting it out of me – about the miscarriage. We drowned in our collective guilt for another month before emerging together again. But our problem persisted. Though we knew what had happened to Harry, we'd no idea where he was and there was no one we could really tell beyond Remus and an already harried Professor Flitwick. Neither proved to be much help, unfortunately.

Then came that fateful day. It ought not to have been possible, but it did happen. Only four days after we had returned from our honeymoon in Provence – Ron had a painful case of sunburn despite my admonishments to wear some sunscreen – Ginny flooed us to say Harry was alive and well in London. The day before we'd rowed bitterly in the Leaky Cauldron about her inability to get her life in order, being constantly in a foul mood, sauntering off with casual boyfriends, or inundating herself with work. She looked a shambles, hair clean but otherwise unkempt, same with her clothes. I doubt she had slept more than a couple of hours a night for about six months. But the next morning… Her eyes may have been bloodshot, but she bore an almost irrepressible grin. Needless to say, Ron and I were very pleased to finally see her happy, until the shock of the reason why hit us. We ought to have been happy. Instead, we were both astonished and terrified. Neither of us had prepared for Harry's possible rediscovery. We glanced at each other with strained smiles as we sought a way out. Ginny was, unfortunately, never slow. Virtue of growing up with Fred and George, I don't doubt. She exhausted an entire encyclopaedia of vulgar expressions on us before starting on arcane insults and curses. The only reason she stopped was that her voice faltered. The Howlers proved that. We tried to contact her at Fred and Angelina's, but Ginny refused to answer and they didn't pressurise her. I was furious with them at the time, but now I realise theirs was the right course.

It was only with Ginny's expletive-laden floo that everything fit into place. As she was preparing the full barrage of insults against us, she told us about her argument with Harry three years before, about what both she and Trelawney had Seen. At first, we disbelieved that she could See anything, but Harry accepted what she said without question. He had countered her prediction with Trelawney's vision, verbatim, not dissembling about the element of chance. She was near tears as she related that he hadn't been overly concerned about dying if it meant killing Voldemort. She took a moment to compose herself – we were still too ashamed of ourselves to respond – before berating us for concealing his existence, for lying to her. It was as if we had murdered him, and I might as well have. Ron stood by me, accepted the blame with me. He shouldn't have; guiltily, I must admit I'm glad he did. After that conversation, Ginny didn't contact us or respond to anything we sent her for six months. Fred and Angelina avoided us as well. That was one of the worst years of my life.

I still don't know how Ginny found Harry. As I said, it shouldn't have been possible. Maybe it was when he introduced himself… No, Ginny said she introduced herself first. The collision itself? No, at most they ought to have believed each other to have been vague passers-by. Perhaps…? Impossible. _A pair of ghosts colliding on the pavement, each dead to the other, the shock breaking the spell._

What had I done? At the time I thought – did I think, or just react? – I was acting for everyone's best interest. Harry writhing in torment, the Ministry plagued by Death Eater attacks, St Mungo's constantly under siege. I tried to hold out, to stand by him. I'm so sorry Harry…

Don't judge me. Please.


	8. There's Too Much Love

**There and Back Again Lane**

Ch. 8 – There's Too Much Love

**Edinburgh**

---(Ginny's POV)---

Falling back into the past. It all seems so much clearer now.

Late May, my supplemental Seeker practice lengthening with the days. Harry stands on the pitch, shouting praises and advice that flutter through the breeze and cusp my ears like flowers. I take a chance and stop looking for the snitch to catch a glimpse of Gryffindor's unofficial manager in all his messy, dark-haired glory. Instead of seeing him standing on the green grass of the centre circle, hands cupped to his mouth for a makeshift megaphone, he lays battered, burnt, and bleeding on scorched earth, a young woman kneeling beside him, muttering. Unconsciously, my hands fly to cover my mouth gaping with shock, sending me off balance momentarily. Faintly, I hear him yelling at me.

'Ginny! What are you doing?' I can't tell whether he's concerned or angry. His face is strangely obscured by distance... 'The snitch was inches from your ear!' Angry, the git. And here I was panicking, imagining him dead. Probably just worried about his precious Firebolt. _I'll kill him myself,_ I think, _save old Tom the bother._ If I didn't like the tosser so much, I'd at least hex him into next week.

'Shut it, Potter.' _Clever comeback._ I head to the team entrances. I've had enough of his tantrums, indifference, and self-pity to last several lifetimes. The sooner he's out of my life the better. _Then why am I so miserable? _ This, too, shall pass. I hope.

He's calling to me, running, but I pay no heed. I just want off the pitch and to wash the images from me along with the sweat. In my agitation, however, I can't unfasten my Quidditch surcoat. As I try to pull it over my head uttering a constant stream of curses, I hear Harry enter the team room.

'Ginny, what's the matter?'

'Nothing!'

'Bollocks. You and your man have a row?'

I stop struggling with the surcoat and glower at him. He knows I haven't had a boyfriend in seven months, which makes the question all the more galling. 'Since when were you interested in my lovelife, Potter?'

'Since you failed to notice a snitch two inches from your ear, Weasley.'

I notice then the bloody thing's squirming in my hand. How I caught it, I'll never know. Probably explains the difficulty I was having with the cloak. 'Is this what you want?' I fling the snitch at his head. It makes half the distance before changing course. Annoyingly, he looks impressed. 'Then sod off!'

'Ginny, tell me.'

'Why?'

'Because I've some fairly incriminating stories Ron told me.'

'You wouldn't dare...'

'Try me.'

'I'll hex you into eternity!'

'I'll risk it.'

'Bastard.'

'No sweet-talking out of this one, Ginny.'

I collapse on to a bench and stare at the ground. 'It's nothing.' I can't look at him. The anger's passed but the vision remains. I'm afraid that when I look at his face it will be blistered and blackened. I've seen that too many times already.

'Ginny, look at me.' What am I, five? I'm only a year younger than him. But I hear him come over and kneel in front of me. His hand clasps gently on to my shoulder, squeezes lightly. _You can't make me._ I want to swat his hand away, or to hold it. It's disconcerting how he's trying to soothe my irritation. I shut my eyes afraid of the dampness cresting on their lids.

He lifts my chin gingerly with a crooked finger as a pair of tears trail down my cheeks. I could hate him for reducing me to this state if it wasn't for the urge to hold him, for him to assure me the vision was just a nightmare. But that would be a lie I'm not willing to tell.

'I Saw you die.' The words escape my lips before I realise it.

'When?' It's a peculiar comfort that he believes me. His voice is detached, analytical. Why doesn't he laugh it off, or say something to minimise the grief that threatens to overwhelm me? Why must the git be so focused on that sodding prophecy? He releases my chin and sits before me.

'The summer before my fifth year.'

_Now_ he laughs. 'Well, that explains a few things.' What's he talking about? _Oh._ I'm tempted to slap the smirk off his face. 'Don't worry, I'll keep schtum; I have for this long.' How can he do that? Must be a by-product of the Occlumency training. That and making him a slightly better-tempered version of Snape. (Shudder.) 'What did you See exactly?'

No matter how many times the images have replayed in my head, they don't become any easier to relate. Describing them to him is a special torture. Here he is before me, young, handsome, alert, strangely attentive, yet there he is, broken on the wheel of fortune, barely recognisable. I tell him of walking through the ranks of the dead and dying to find him, and what I eventually discover. When my voice starts to waver, he grasps my hand and squeezes for an instant. But he's unaffected by my words, nodding patiently like it's common gossip. Still, it's a comfort to see his eyes so clear, full of life. _Then why am I shivering?_ Noticing me shuddering and rocking back and forth, he sits next to me, holds me in a fraternal embrace, and whispers platitudes in my ear. Yet I can't stop shaking even when I put my arms around him. 'You don't seem to be breathing...'

He pulls me away slightly, raising my chin to look at my face. 'Did you see him?' Tom. Don't want to think about him, had enough nightmares about him already. I don't want to answer the question for fear what he might do when the time comes.

'Yes,' I whisper. 'I think so.' He's the charred one with the great silver blade sticking through him, isn't he? I hope so. 'He's dead.' _Too._

'Are you certain?' My head jerks in a pantomimic nod. 'Did you see anyone else around us?' He wipes my tears away with the cuffs of his robes.

'Hermione's sitting next to you saying something.'

'Any idea what?'

Can't answer that question. Please, no. _Doesn't he deserve to know,_ a part of me demands. Don't listen to it...

'"He did it, he did it."' _Bugger._ I've sealed his fate. 'Maybe it's all just _déjà vu_, Harry,' I plead. 'Maybe it's just a stupid nightmare.' He knows I don't believe that, though.

'How clear were your senses?' Another shudder, and he squeezes me closer to him. But all I can think of is the smell of death, the smoke, the faces and bodies. I'm going to boak. 'You don't have to tell me.' We're so close now, but all I want to do is find some place to be sick. Still, he holds me, tells me not to worry. That pulls me out of my horrible reverie. I push him away, off the bench, a look of astonishment flooding over Harry's face.

'Everything will not be OK, Harry!' I shout. 'You'll be dead. Where does that leave the rest of us?' I grab on to the neck of his robes. 'Why don't you even care anymore?' Releasing him, I storm to the other end of the room and gather his Firebolt.

'Ginny, you don't understand.' I turn to see him clenching his jaw as he's desperately controlling his temper, but I glower back.

'What don't I understand? That you're blissfully heading towards death like some idiot martyr?' His eyes squint from the impact of my words and the jaw releases. 'Of course I don't!'

He slumps back on to the bench and sighs. 'Please, Ginny, just sit,' he asks patting a space next to him. Flummoxed but still furious, I sit on a nearby bench instead. 'I never told you, any of you, the entirety of Trelawney's prediction.' He leans forward as recounts precisely what he saw in Dumbledore's Pensieve two years ago.

'That doesn't mean you _have_ to die, Harry,' I declare hoping to convince myself.

'But it is a possibility.' He moves towards the chalkboard. 'And your vision tends to confirm it.'

'When has that fraud ever been right?' I scream.

'The night Pettigrew returned to Voldemort's side.' I quaver both at the forgotten revelation and its implication. 'It's a small price to pay, Ginny, when it allows so many others to survive.'

'Bollocks!' Let volume succeed where reasoned argument fails.

'Hermione'll live,' he states. 'You'll live. That ought to count for something.'

I rush towards him and punch him square in the chest. 'You won't die!' Though he winces and falls back a step, he won't be convinced. I hit him again.

'Ginny!' He grabs my wrists before I can assail him again. My eyes, to my shame, are drowning in tears. There are trails down his cheeks as well. 'It might happen.' He fixes me with a stare as I try to wrestle away, imploring me to accept the cruel whim of fate. My knees give way, but he keeps me upright, hugging me tightly. I feel safe but vulnerable. _I want to be strong._ Yet in his arms I feel my breathing deepen, my head drop to his shoulder, my arms to my sides.

Then he kisses my head, and, as I lift my chin, my lips. I doubt that either of us knew what he was doing.

At first, it is tender, surprisingly so. Just as suddenly, though, it becomes ferocious. His teeth begin to bite down on my lower lip. Terrified, I open my eyes to a feral expression. Harry, too, realises what's happening and pushes me back, not too hard but enough for me to stumble. His scar, covered somewhat by his hand, is bright red and blood begins to seep through his fingers. He turns abruptly and punches the chalkboard, a sickening crack filling the air.

'Sorry, Ginny,' he pleads, fatigued. 'You shouldn't have had to experience that, not after what you've been though.' Slumps to the floor, cradling his arm. 'I guess it's more Occlumency lessons for me.' He laughs bitterly. 'Pain does have a way of keeping him at bay, though,' showing me his bloodied hand.

'Harry—'

'Just leave, Ginny, please,' he requests. 'It's not your fault. Not your problem.'

'At least let me take you—'

'No.' It's muttered but conclusive. 'Please.'

Frustrated, I snatch the snitch as it flies past me and leave Harry to brood or occlude his mind, whichever, in peace.

The kiss confuses me. We flirted briefly in my fifth year, and I snogged him those two times, but that was the first time he initiated. _Until Tom took over._

I spend an hour walking along the lake's shore trying to think what to say to Harry when I return to the common room. Most of what I feel is anger. _I'm no porcelain doll._ I battled against Tom my first year, too, and I had _no_ help. Eventually, I succumbed, but I was able to hold him off for a time. If nothing else, I could bolster Harry in the trying times, give him some of my strength. But didn't his tentative kiss change things? It was hesitant, stumbling, but intentional. I need to confront him about that, too. Harry (then) is nothing if not deliberate, and who knows what might have happened if Tom hadn't intervened. I'm not so foolish to believe he would have confessed his undying love for me on the team room floor after we'd shagged ourselves raw. The Hogwarts wards covering the castle and outbuildings would've prevented the latter – why else do you think so many students are on the grounds into late October, or why I gave that pillock Sloper a shiner when he suggested it – while I doubt whether Harry would admit to anything. And before I'm aware of it, I hear the Fat Lady cough gently to gain my attention.

I yearn to find Harry in the common room, but when he isn't there the anger – at myself, at Harry, and especially at Tom – takes hold again. Ron and Hermione are puzzled and concerned when I emerge back through the portrait hole. To avoid any conversation at the moment I kick a chair out of my way and thunder up to the girls' dormitories. What I was going to tell Harry eludes me now, but the sentiment is as strong as ever. Hermione comes up, but I tell her to sod off – albeit more politely – saying that it was only another row about Seeking. She gives me this obnoxious knowing look, but doesn't inquire further.

How did I feel about Harry then? After that episode in the Forest – despite having bested Malfoy – Harry's behaviour made me rethink whether I ought to waste my time on him any longer. When he chased after Bellatrix Lestrange, ignoring us in his grief, I began wondering if I'd confused foolhardiness with bravery. Was it just a silly schoolgirl infatuation, a hold-over from my first-year crush? I asked myself if this flawed young man worth loving. And the answer, no matter how many times I toyed with the question, how I played with the rules, was, _is_ yes.

Yet no matter how much I love him, I can't face him after having lied so long, not after what happened in London. I'm sick of complicating his life, and of him, mine. But slumber traps me here. _If I see him, I know I'll stay._

There's tapping on the window, but I can't open my eyelids to see what, or whom it might be.

---(Owl's POV)---

A screech owl waits patiently outside the bedroom window, a letter tied carefully to his claw. The red-headed woman within lay dead to the world. Another series of beak taps on the window is answered by some slight stirring from sleeping beauty, but otherwise nothing. _Humans._ A sudden movement catches his attention. _Breakfast..._

---(Ginny's POV)---

Harry's parting words haunt me. _Especially you._ Was it to him just the latest betrayal after two years of lies? I can't, don't want to believe he thinks so ill of me. Perhaps he simply didn't trust me to not wipe out other memories, or to reduce him into some sort of servant. Maybe he meant it would be worse if I Obliviated him because he loved me. Besides, what if I told him all of that nonsense yet he never recovers his memory? Too many variables...

Drifting off again.

Must be dreaming of a pub as the scent of smoke, sweat, and drink permeate the air. Something brushes against my cheek but leaves before I can swat it away.

The smell of coffee wakes me. He must be home.

---(Harry's POV)---

I survey two tins of Irn Bru shiver slightly along with the paracetamol bottle as the train winds its way gracefully towards Waverley. Four tablets later and the wee man in my head has given up his drill for a hammer. The foul taste in my mouth has been washed away somewhat, but caffeine and dread cause my hands to shake. That dream has rattled me. We did know each other from before, were familiar though how so I've no idea.

It must be frustrating for her to be around someone who can't even remember any of the old jokes, as it will be for me to catch up with seven missing years. Or more if subsequent images were true. Being chased about and otherwise tormented by some lumbering pair of biped pigs, _Animal Farm_ rejects or something. And some creature that must have been a perversion of Irma Prunesquallor… None of the three resembled my parents in any way. Maybe _that_ was just a wretched nightmare.

I stop at a shop on Minto Street on my way home to purchase a few bottles of juice to battle the hangover. Tell myself I won't drink so much ever again, and hope this time it's the truth. By the time I get to the flat, it's 11.30. As I clamber up the steps, I've little hope she'll still be there. But when I open the door, her bags are piled near the entrance and the door to the bedroom is slightly open, revealing her curled form just under the covers. I give her a peck on the cheek she belatedly tries to fend off before wandering into the kitchen to brew some coffee. With two hours of sleep and too much caffeine and drink flowing through me, it's a surprise I'm moving so calmly. _She's back, she's here._ I can only hope she'll stay.

Fifteen minutes later she stumbles into the kitchen, her face bearing pillow marks, her hair askew. Though she'd kill me to say it, she's very cute in the morning. Resolutely, she heads towards the coffee pot.

As she passes I clasp her wrist. 'We have to talk.'

'Isn't that my line?' She glares at me and wrenches her arm away before collecting her coffee and moving back towards the bedroom.

---(Ginny's POV)---

I could take it if Harry was just angry with me, but the disappointment on his face is more than I can bear. 'Why did you leave?' he inquires. _That's just annoying._

'I could ask the same of you,' I growl back.

'I asked first.' _Oh, very mature, Mr. Potter._ 'Besides, you know why.'

_Especially you._ What did he mean by that? 'I didn't want to be bothered by some specky ickle git who can't hold his drink.' Wait a moment for the words to impress themselves in his wee brain. He doesn't blanch, just sits there with the same perturbed expression. 'Reason enough?'

'But you didn't just leave the hotel, you're planning to leave here as well.' He points to my bags in the hall. 'I can understand not wanting to face me in that condition. You're buggering off completely, though.' He drains his coffee, allowing the cup to rattle on the kitchen surface. 'Explain that.'

'What the hell were you doing all that time, I might ask!' I feel the blood rushing to my cheeks, the mug vibrating in my hand.

'As you surmised, I went for a pint or few.' He's trying to be calm, but I notice he's fidgeting. 'Ran into Fred and we started talking.' Now I'm starting to get worried again. What did my evil brother tell him? 'He brought me back to the hotel. You can ring him or whatever if you don't believe me.' When I look in his eyes, I can tell he isn't lying. Yet it's not altogether comforting.

---(Harry's POV)---

'So when did you leave London?' I can feel my voice straining a little as I try to remain calm.

'About two,' she winces with her answer. It was a silly ploy that surprisingly worked. The mug shatters, sending milky coffee on to the floor and her dress.

'You were willing to wait until two when I'd likely come back pished to the gills, then you leave?' My brow furrows, my lips get tighter. 'That makes no sense.' I wait for her to answer, but she only stands there, looking out the kitchen window.

Finally, she turns back towards the bedroom and closes the door. I knock and inquire whether she's OK, but she doesn't answer. The mess in the kitchen is dealt with while our private disaster gets worse. A quarter-hour later, the door opens as she announces she's leaving.

'If you leave now, don't bother coming back!' _Resorting to shouting at backs, have we?_ Bloody brilliant. Especially when I hear the door slam, followed by my head rebounding off the kitchen table.

---(Ginny's POV)---

_That wee prick! _ I slam the front door, toss my bags back into the hall, and storm into the kitchen, vaguely aware that my eyes are twitching from nervous rage, fists clenched to pound his smug face. If I hadn't forgotten Hedwig I would have left.

'You, give me an ultimatum?' I don't care it's morning. Bugger the downstairs neighbour beating a tattoo with a broom. Sod the screeching baby next door. 'Who buggered off, leaving _his_ fiancée in an empty hotel room?' Tears are winding their way down my cheeks despite myself. Even so, I'm in full fury.

I can't read his expression at all. He looks like I feel, furious and miserable. Shakes his head and goes for another cup of coffee. 'Don't bloody turn your back on me!' Full cup in hand, he turns and shakes his head again.

'Do you have any idea why I left, or are you just going to keep screaming?'

'I'm not...' But of course I am. The entire tenement's alive and agitated now. _Wanker!_ He's playing it cool now, turning the tables. _When this is over, I'll kill him._ I slump down in the chair opposite as he fills another mug of coffee for me. How could I forget what he'd said to me, as it broke my heart for the nth time in two days? But I wait until the milk takes effect, stirring it in to gain time. _He's so painfully patient._ I don't want to ask this question, but it demands to be asked. 'What did you mean by "especially you"?'

---(Harry's POV)---

Be direct or deflect?

I wish I was cleverer. _I wish I'd added something to my coffee,_ I think as it trickles down my throat. _Deflect while being direct._ 'Why would you think I would want to forget the past two years?'

'You first.' The tone is still stern but her expression softens, waiting for my answer.

Bugger, this is going to be hard. 'I don't know what life we had before, maybe I never will, but the past two years haven't been that bad for you, have they?' She just keeps looking at me impassively. _Wrong thing to say._

---(Ginny's POV)---

I'm fighting the impulse to bite my lower lip. To beg him to stop looking so dejected and confess they were the best years of my life. My years of Auror training carry me through, but a voice tells me I've taken the wrong road.

Yet he continues. 'Whatever we had then, I love you now.' He stares at his coffee cup for a while, tenses his fingers around it despite the heat. 'Even if you leave for good today, no one will take those years from me. Not now, not ever.' His eyes bore into mine, a certain ferocity evident within. 'If you offer to do _that_ to me again, I'll know that time meant nothing to you, that I was just some silly plaything for you.' Another pause. 'Now, answer my question.'

I can't.

'I thought you'd hate me,' I blurt. _Mind and mouth are meant to be connected. _ 'I'd rather you forget me than hate me.' The coffee pot is dumb to my prayers for assistance. I'm distantly aware that my knuckles are cracking in my lap. Anything but look into his eyes. Couldn't live with the look of disgust, pity, or ignorant sympathy.

Instead, he kisses me and I travel back seven years to our alcove before the vision intruded. Our arms clasp round each other ever tighter. As we cling to each other, terrified the other would leave, he whispers in my ear. There's an odd fervour there that I find mildly frightening, mildly intoxicating.

'I'm beginning to remember.'


	9. The Warden of the Tomb

**There and Back Again Lane**

Ch. 9 – The Warden of the Tomb

**London**

---(Angelina's POV)---

I should have known the berk would've tried something like that. I can't believe that I actually let Fred attempt to 'help' Ginny tell Harry she and the rest of the family are part of a wider wizarding community. Only a single tumbler, and a small one at that, of drink passed these lips. I've no excuse. Would, however, the Wizengamot really try me for hexing the little cretin with an especially vile assortment of curses and jinxes considering my mitigating circumstances? I think not. 'My Lord, I was simply expressing my exasperation for my moron of a husband's efforts to disrupt the impending marriage of his sister to the man who killed Voldemort once and for all.' They'd make me a member of the Order of Merlin, First Class, faster than Krum catching a snitch. After I'd explained Harry's still among the living... I've been telling the exact same things at Fred for a good thirty minutes, quiet enough so as to not wake the neighbours, but I think my rather complete vocabulary of insults, curses, and threats has been exhausted. He hasn't been able to move more than two feet from the door.

Perhaps I don't know Ginny as well as I should. Sure, she was a great Seeker during my regrettably short stint as captain at Hogwarts, and I knew she had a natural aptitude for Quidditch, but during the two-and-a-half years she stayed in the bedsit above the store, she kept mostly to herself. Don't get me wrong. She did convey to us her gratitude for providing a not-too-inquisitive home and to me the pleasure for making Fred happy again. I did discern that she and Fred are very alike in their response to dire circumstances, that neither of them considered such matters worthy of much concern beyond a modest challenge to be either confronted headlong where possible or flanked if necessary. Even so, Harry was, is a special case.

She'd invested everything in the boy after his rediscovery, and, from the little I'd allowed Fred to speak, probably believed she had lost him after this late night, particularly after my imbecilic husband kept Harry out until the wee hours. If Harry'd come back after the pubs had closed, she would have cast a few sobering charms on him before dressing him down. But no. Fred had to keep him out until two. Maybe she imagines her fiancé enveloped by the thighs of some common or garden strumpet he found in a pub, trying his buggering best to wipe Ginny from his memory. Not that I believe Harry to be that type of bloke, even after the Obliviation. But Ginny has six straight years of well-remembered disappointment with the lad so likely expects the worst. In any case, she would want some time on her own to think about what to do next. So she waits as long as she possibly can for him to return, ensuring she can Apparate without incident back to Edinburgh if he doesn't, collects her things, and Knight Buses it to who-knows-where. Worst case. Best case would be that she's so tired after tonight, she sleeps it off, planning to leave before the first trains come in from London. That's what I'm counting on when I send Bertie off to find her.

Fred better hope that owl gets there in time, else that marriage won't be the only thing cut off.

---(Hermione's POV)---

Our bad situation just became worse.

Angelina flooed this morning with word of what Fred's late night exploits. After the argument last night, I ought to have expected him to try to tell Harry despite my admonition. She, however, is angrier that he kept Harry out so late, worrying that Ginny might have returned to Edinburgh in the belief Harry had left her. Though that seems quite unlike Ginny, Harry has often had a peculiar effect on her behaviour, as Ron occasionally has on mine. Ron's groans on hearing this possibility and his subsequent inability to finish his breakfast indicate he concurs. A telephone call to the hotel confirms our suspicions: Harry checked out at around four in the morning without accompaniment.

Honestly, I don't know what I want to have happen now. It was I who advocated (all right, _demanded_) that she reveal her nature to Harry as soon as possible, particularly after hearing about their engagement. The declaration, I hoped, would spur a reawakening of his old memories that would make his integration into the wizarding community that much easier. Perhaps he might even produce some accidental magic. But there is much I fear beside those increasingly vain wishes.

I was concerned that Harry might not take the news of Ginny's nature well. After all, he recently graduated with a degree in the natural sciences. He might be terribly sceptical of anyone, especially his prospective wife, announcing she can manifest metaphysical – or is the going term 'paranormal'? – abilities. It would be difficult for any Muggle to accept. My parents had a difficult time believing their beloved, swotty, nearly friendless only daughter was a witch. It took some convincing, but thankfully they accepted the truth. I had hoped Harry would be equally accommodating as my dentist Mum and Dad. _Close-minded little git._ Maybe Ginny told him a little more...

Ginny, whatever her faults, is a sensible woman, even around Harry since her third year at Hogwarts. Thus, if she did tell him more about _his_ past, I assume she must have had good reason. The possibility that he had displayed instances of accidental magic, to which she has given me only vague hints, would certainly provide her with sufficient cause. If such occurrences are becoming more frequent, or if other examples of magical talent or nature are reappearing – his hair did seem somewhat messy yesterday – it would be best that he acknowledge such outward manifestations for what they are rather than conceal them behind a convenient fiction. Otherwise, he would be posing a danger to himself and others. She may have, however, simply wanted to guide him further down memory lane. Possible, but unlikely.

The important questions are not simply precisely what Ginny told Harry last night, but what exactly was his reaction, and what will it be in the long term. After ringing the hotel, it seems he reacted poorly, but conventionally: row and out to the pub. Ordinarily that wouldn't have posed my sister the least difficulty. I would be much more concerned about his condition after he returned. Fred's intervention, I sincerely hope, simply delayed their reconciliation, or I might feel some pity for my husband's idiot brother. There was the fear that the impact of all these truths might send him into catatonia or induce a paranoid episode. Obliviation is scarcely an exact science, despite what the Ministry says. It is also possible he might suffer from both conditions later on if pressed to remember. No matter how patient one is – and, regarding Harry, Ginny nothing if not patient – it must be unbearable seeing someone one loves struggling and failing to remember even the simplest thing. The temptation to prompt the person must, almost inevitably, become irresistible. This worry leads to my greatest fear.

Harry and Ginny have been though too much to deny them a chance at happiness, but I'm still not certain whether it's best or even possible at the present time for them to attempt it together. She might act as a catalyst for his degeneration into the shrieking, struggling catastrophe he was at St Mungo's after the last battle, the one so blinded with rage he would have killed us all given the opportunity. It is categorically impossible that he will ever be able to revert to the Harry we knew before the last battle. Too much has intervened in the succeeding half-decade. At best, we can hope he will become an amalgam of whom he was and whom he is. Whether he will be able to become part of wizarding society again is also debatable. Does he or will he possess any magical ability, or were all those pseudo-examinations and fabrications hidden within St Mungo's archives unintentionally revealing the bitter truth, that he will remain a Squib? If the latter case is true, it might be better to keep him somewhat in the dark. If the former, it is unlikely he would regain the powers he had before the final battle, though if what Remus and Headmaster Flitwick say about Lily is true and if Harry's talent recovers fully, he will be a force with whom to be reckoned. Still, contrary to my heart's wishes, I am pessimistic.

Yet it is essential that Harry knows at least some of the truth.

---(Lupin's POV)---

Here I am, an English werewolf in London. If I was American – and Hollywood films could be believed – I might be in a delightful flat enjoying wanton, passionate sex with a young Jenny Agutter. Yet 'no' on both counts. _Curse Dumbledore for suggesting that film._ Instead, visitor pass firmly affixed to my stylish but modest lapel, I'm travelling down to the arsehole of this festering sewer of a Ministry of Magic on a potentially hopeless errand for a file that has likely been 'lost' between a requisition order for fresh quills and another for more memorandum stationery.

Don't misunderstand me. I love Harry like a son. But how those two evil little trolls embroiled me in this devilishly insane scheme I have very little idea. _Ignore the whinging voice, Remus._ Couldn't I at least wait until it's almost a full moon so that I might be armed with something more than these weighty, clanking robes? No, they insisted. Insisted that they were too well known in Ministry circles to be able to carry out such a mission. Bollocks. If anyone is 'well-known' to the Ministry it would be a werewolf. Maybe a vampire. Perhaps a hag. Scratch that last category.

Here I am at level ten. The Plenary Court and Ministerial Archives. I am uncertain which destination gives me the greatest chills.

Elspeth Clarke, _née_ Crannock, Mistress of the Rolls, Keeper of the Archival Quills and Seals. I've the sneaking suspicion, considering the dim glow the lanterns protectively cast on the wooden file cabinets and the ancient spider-strewn shelves of scrolls, she can see in the dark. I am, however, certain she does not take kindly to werewolves, even though it is a good two days after my wretched mensual ritual. The stubbornly obscurantist nonagenarian graces me with that vile little sneer her retinue of quadruped retainers get when they spy an especially succulent rat. How Fred and Angelina talked me into this, I have no idea. Oh yes; they played on my guilty conscience implying that this would finally redeem me in Ginny's estimation and that Harry, should he ever recover his memory, wouldn't regard me as such a beast. At my age, one would think I'd know better than to fall for such ploys.

A big toothy grin greets the horrid crone as I prepare to debase myself before her assumed august presence. 'Mistress Clarke.' _Bow the head and tug the forelock like a good prat._ 'How are you this fine morning?' Close up, she is in the same state as her realm. One would have expected her skin to be pale from all the years avoiding sunlight, but instead it's the colour of parchment, thanks in part to the materials used in preserving her charges. It might also be a touch of jaundice kept just to add to the decor. Her brittle white hair is pulled back so tightly even the stragglers conform to the shape of her cadaverous head. Engulfed within several layers of official vestments concealing her desiccated frame, Mistress Clarke gave the impression of a rather sickly whelk caught in the act of closing its shell. The mere sight of her disgusts me, though that is overwhelmingly in response to her nature than her advanced age and degenerated condition.

'I bide fine, werewolf Lupin.' Her sandpaper voice, product of the ravages of eighty years of pipe-smoking tobacco even Mundungus would have avoided, abrades much of my patience away. The sickening brownish-yellow grin that follows murders most of the rest. 'What brings you to my domain?'

Let me see. Guilt on three counts. Desertion in the face of the enemy, wilful negligence causing grievous bodily harm, and conspiracy to commit murder. Of a sort. 'Mistress Clarke,' bow and scrape, 'it is simply a great honour to be in your presence.'

She might be old, but nowhere near senile. 'Nonsense, werewolf,' she barked. 'You know materials within this archive may only be used by Ministry officials with the appropriate clearance, and you're not one and have not the other.' The repulsive smirk replaces the nauseating grin. The two two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old bottles of thirty-year Taransay _uisgebeatha_ emerging from my robes manipulate her features to emote astonished, avaricious, almost erotic ecstasy. Frankly, I'm terrified her beady eyes will break their tenuous moorings and wind their ways into the amber nectar of cirrhosis. After the longest time, she blinks and declares in a stubborn rage revealing the temptation the bottles had educed was insufficient to grant access.

'Tut, tut,' I reply in my best professorial tenor, 'these are merely symbols of my gratitude for your kindness.' With a fluorish, I remove my reader's privilege order from my inside robe pocket and unfurl it with a casual wrist motion. 'And here is my key.'

'It's not been countersigned by the Head of Department.' You would think that the Minister's signature, as well as that of our beloved Mafalda Hopkirk – God save her from the fate that's coming to her – would be enough, particularly if the Head of Department's was enough to put Harry in his present predicament. If Clarke is a surly goblin, Perkins, even at the best of times, is a furious troll. Especially if one is a werewolf and is confronting her with a request to prove her to be the ambitious, conniving and criminally minded swine she is.

'Are you sure?' A new pair of Taransay sees the light of the flickering lanterns. 'Madam Hopkirk's signature is there...'

'Well, according to the Minister's letter, the item may concern the possible misuse of magic,' she concedes bitterly, lamely, though half-heartedly desiring for more information to come from my mouth while licking her lips staring longingly at the four bottles. Thin claws dance upon her bureau as she ponders my request. 'Though, to my recollection, it is a _very_ arcane document, perusable only by those of junior minister rank and above, and then only with the permission of the Minister herself.' Another repugnant smirk as her spidery hands coalesce in a distinctly perverse embrace. I feel the definite urge to be sick, though my mouth contorts to avoid conveying that impulse.

'Does Mistress Clarke think I keep six bottles of the finest whisky on me at all times?' I rally my face to portray bitter shock. 'If I did, where would I put these,' shifting the bottles to one hand and pulling out of my ever shrinking robes two exquisite goblets of goblin-wrought silver with gilt lip, trim, and base, the Black family crest emblazoned in platinum on two sides. Her jaw drops in awe and her hands collide with the top of her desk with alacrity. 'Pity that this particular beverage tastes best alone...'

'An hour,' she eventually croaks. 'Two, if you have a fifth.'

'Two it is then.' I wait until she toddles off to find the document before I fish out the fifth bottle. After a quarter-hour, she returns with the scroll in question. The bottles exchange hands immediately, but I keep the two goblets in reserve until a swift shufti of the order reveals it to be the one we require. 'My humble thanks, Mistress Clarke,' I announce with magnanimous head-bow as I gingerly place the two goblets on the bureau. She immediately snatches one of the cups and scuttles off to an even darker corner of her realm.

'All right, Rita,' I mumble. 'Time to get to work.'

* * *

**Q & A Time (to questions received so far)**

To **gallandro-83**, who proves that I should have used a beta for this story :), so many good questions... Regarding whether physical contact (their collision) was necessary for Harry and Ginny to meet, to an extent yes. Had they passed each other on the street they would have noted someone that seemed familiar, but not enough to make either of them stop as they were forced to once they collided.

Remus was involved in the decision to Obliviate Harry, but was somewhat not entirely of sound mind at the time.

At present the Ministry is unaware of Harry's recovery...

As for Ginny's backstory as a healer, that one's a bit of a logical puzzle to me as well. AsGinny takes the guise of aholistic healer, rather than a magical Healer, Harry wouldn't necessarily expect her to cure of any ailment any quicker than he would by any ordinary Muggle physician, while his ignorance of holistic medicine -- despite his interest in Ginny's career -- would be enough for her to muddle through. As for the Auror assignments she might receive, I admit I haven't come up with a convincing solution: so far, conferences to the occasional city or additional training abroad are all of the solutions that I can currently think of. Since Harry would have been studying for University, he couldn't go with her, and might be sufficiently waylaid by his workload to accept her occasional long voyages... I'm not entirely convinced by that argument, either.

On to your second set of questions (many spoilers below; you've been warned):

1)Dean's POV is the last one presented in Chapter 15 (available on **SIYE**)

2) Yes

3) I so wish I'd have thought ofhavingthe small mirrors as miniature foe-glasses, but instead they are similar to the mirror Sirius gave Harry in _Order of the Phoenix._ Now I'm kicking myself for not having thought of your idea...

4) Neville isn't dead. It could be that I erred somewhere, however, but as yet I haven't found where... In the second chapter he's stated as being in Borneo at the time Ron and Hermione are getting married. Luna has passed away, though.

5) Trying not to give too much away here: Oliver and a few others believed thatDraco had died, but instead he just disappeared owing to a last-minute warning, which will be explained somewhat in Chapter 19.

6) I decided to use the old trope that being around Hermione so long has rubbed off on Ginny, though not nearly so much as the quality time she spent with the twins. Being an Auror, she would likewise be responsible for learning about the nature and effects of illegal spells and artefacts. As for the spell's effects, it's more that one feels what the other person is experiencing, which in Harry's case was grief and misery as well as the love for those that had been lost, the weight of which was far too much forTom to bear, overwhelming the latter's defences prompting some bleedback. The purpose of the Charm will be explained further in Chapter 20, where this will hopefully make somewhat more sense... :)

7) Ginny's vision will be explored further in Chapter 19, but your second guess is closest.


	10. Your Cover's Blown

**There and Back Again Lane**

Ch. 10 – Your Cover's Blown

_In human affairs, nothing remains enduring; all human affairs revolve in a helix, moving around and out._

—Frank Herbert, _Children of Dune_

Sir Humphrey Appleby: _Yes, I do think there is a real dilemma here, in that while it has been government policy to regard policy as the responsibility of Ministers and administration as the responsibility of officials, questions of administrative policy can cause confusion between the administration of policy and the policy of administration, especially when the responsibility for the administration of the policy of administration conflicts or overlaps with the responsibility for the policy of the administration of policy._

—Sir Humphrey Appleby in Jonathan Lynn and Antony Jay, 'A question of loyalty,' _The Complete Yes, Minister_, 336.

**Edinburgh**

---(Bertie's POV)---

Pay it no heed until the last moment. The blighter's nose sniffs the air in rapid twitches, its beady eyes peering at the ledge where I'd been perched seconds earlier, forepaws raised in supplication as it sits on its haunches. _Smells female._ Yes, I know I'm making a spectacle of myself up here, but she's a lovely little thing, fit for plucking. A slight dip, a casual slide, and _dive._ I may not get much practice – not nearly as much as I'd wish – but it's a delight to hear the short sharp shriek as talons pierce pelt and grasp tenaciously on to bone and cartilage. Feisty bugger this one, struggling to gain liberty as I tighten my grip further. Too tasty to drop; can't let some daft alley cat take my feast. Minor adjustments in flight allow a claw to find the spinal column and —_snip!_ — ickle Miss Squirmy is off to ratty afterlife, while I enjoy my temporal paradise on the rooftop, away from prying eyes.

First taste confirms what I'd suspected. Not as stringy as a common city rat. She was domesticated, likely trained, fit. A faint flicker of remorse flashes in my mind for the owner until I begin to savour the flesh in earnest.

---(Ginny's POV)---

Through the walls of disbelief, the words I'd longed to hear Harry say for two aching years march triumphantly into my ear. _He's remembering._ My arms cling tighter to him as he lowers me to sit near him on the kitchen floor. I opt for his lap instead, ensnaring him with my legs, determined not to let go. Maybe I should ask him what he remembers, but I don't want to ruin this moment. Not yet. The stench of drink and smoke emanating from his clothes besiege my senses, but all I truly smell is his scent, definite, singular, as I nestle my head deeper into the crook of his neck, kissing there every once in a while to prove he's still here, that I'm not imagining this. Against this resistance I offer, he extricates himself slightly to look me in the eye, though I gently rest my forehead against his and attempt to breathe regularly.

To prevent him from asking the question I'm dreading, finally I gather the nerve to inquire about his recollections. He spins the tale of the Death Eater attack on Hogsmeade in mid-February of my fifth year at Hogwarts that laid waste to The Three Broomsticks. I remember that day well.

We were acting as Ron and Hermione's 'chaperones.' Dean had succeeded in his half of our pre-summer holiday plan to make the objects of our affection miserably jealous and was off in the corner playing footsie, and who knows what else, with Parvati. _Lucky bastard._ The git now under me, however, remained blithely ignorant that I wanted him there, then, and that I didn't care who saw what. This despite the snogging in that alcove in October of that same school year. _But for that bloody vision..._

Some boys, especially Harry, desperately require a beater's bat to the head before they clue in to a girl who fancies them. Not that Occlumency training helped. Might as well have given Harry cataract glasses inasmuch as I was concerned. Even his formerly beloved Cho received short shrift. Their reconciliation ended with a handshake, with neither a hug nor peck on the cheek, at least not by Harry, _thank God._ Little did I know I'd receive only a slight margin more out of him that year, which was less than could be said for the seductively shy Susan Bones and her questions about corporeal _patroni._ If only I hadn't panicked and warned him off after that kiss. _Stupid, stupid._ That sodding vision cursed me during the one full year I might have had a chance with Harry. That and all those supplementary Occlumency lessons he was taking. But I digress...

The four of us were at table with Neville and Luna. Harry and I had come to a tacit understanding regarding Mum's death after I'd bloodied his nose upon his return from brooding alone in the dark corners of the castle. We'd be there for one another, as family, should another tragedy strike. So, while Ron and Hermione were obnoxiously gazing lovingly at one another, Harry and I joked about how hideous Luna and my bridesmaid dresses would be at their wedding. Neville desperately tried to keep a straight face while Luna, seeming to take Harry and me seriously, offered fashion advice. The gleam in her eye, and the occasional looks at Neville, revealed she was revelling in much different ideas. _God, it hurts... why her? Why any of us?_

The walls and windows of the Three Broomsticks imploded from a mass of Reductor curses, glass shards and wood splinters racing through the air into walls, fixtures, and unprotected flesh. I saw Madam Rosmerta's throat pierced by a nine-inch long fragment that once was part of a window frame as the concussion drove me to the floor. She hadn't a chance. Her hands dropped the tray she was holding before she fell to the ground. Two full tables of third years were completely decimated. Some of the older witches and wizards were able to impede or deflect the missiles while others were injured. Ron and Hermione were bloodied and unconscious but otherwise all right. Neville looked dreadful as he had protected Luna from much of the blast and the debris, but he would survive. Harry was on the ground groaning, having been struck in the stomach by a beam that had been heading for the both of us. He wasn't being brave: we'd both been surprised by the assault. As I provided first aid on those around me, Harry rose to confront a Death Eater that had the temerity to view his handiwork and stunned the bugger. In his condition, I don't know how he did it, and from what he's saying now, neither did – nor does – he.

He seems only to remember the aftermath of the attack, of the pub looking like a bomb had just exploded, of his injuries, and my face – he is very certain about that – appearing above him.

Then he asks _the_ question: 'How well did we know one another then?'

I want to answer honestly, but 'I don't know' wouldn't hold even a dram at the moment. I could reduce our relationship as it was to the fundamental 'I was your best friend's sister,' which would entail discussing the entire Harry-Ron-Hermione dynamic. Sorry, but I haven't the strength for that. Probably he suspects something about them due to their behaviour last night. It would be best for Harry's sake to keep his reintroduction to his past simple.

'We were friends.'

'How close?' He continues to seek my furtive gaze. The truthful answer demands extensive explanations. 'Ron obviously knew me, Hermione seemed to as well, and Fred certainly remembered me.' _Good job, Ange; at least one of us succeeded._

---(Harry's POV)---

As I recounted my hazy reminiscence, her reactions uncovered how little I'm remembering. She cringes as I describe the chaos that surrounded me, us, holds me a little tighter as I recall the pain, and stiffens when I mention asking about our friends. What about our friends frightens her? Did something even more dreadful even than this bombing happen? _Must have, otherwise my memory would still be intact rather than cobbled together as a modern art piece by some collective of unnamed bastards._

The worst part about this bloody recollection is that all my emotions are buggered up. Oh, the pain I remember clearly, but when I looked up at Ginny then I couldn't tell what I felt. There's affection, certainly, but confused and indeterminate, battling with some vague anguish verging on anger. That disquiet is lurking aggressively along the boundary of my consciousness, a tangible presence constantly reversing upon itself…

Her delay in responding to my query intrigues me, as does the uncertainty in my recollected feelings. Mostly, however, these two sources of confusion unsettle me gravely. It's not the adolescent angst I remember almost fondly – and, if this memory is as true as it appears to be, absolutely falsely – of boys, girls, suggestion, and dark corners, or even the threat of a hiding.

She keeps avoiding my eyes, fidgeting in my lap, her jeans scraping not entirely uncomfortably against the cotton of my suit trousers. _Focus, lad._ 'Ginny?' She sighs, her back arches away. With my hands cupping her bum, I pull her back. It's like trying to hold on to a recalcitrant cat. 'Please.' Finally, she stops squirming. I kiss her to breathe life back into her lips. 'Tell me.'

---(Ginny's POV)---

_Always the smooth talker, Potter._ Melting into him, all reason flees. The flooded polders of my consciousness, sundered by the collapse of my defences, make me more susceptible to his ministrations. 'I was your best friend's sister,' I begin.

'Ron, right?' I nod, my hair whisking across his face. 'That can't be all, though, can it?' _Where's he going?_ 'I'm assuming you don't snog someone rigid in a pub if you've just met after however many years.' He's smirking, but I wonder whether it's more for his self-confidence than any actual knowledge of our past. _But he was delightfully rigid that night._ 'Why, Ginny?'

'Why what?' Escape and evade, one of the more important skills Aurors learn.

A brow rises in mock indignation. 'You mean you do savagely snog old acquaintances you meet on the street in pubs.' I so want to slap him but at least he's trying to bring some levity into our fiasco. Saving his cheek, I pinch his arse, causing a pleasant little jump and an exclamation. 'Is that a yes?' _Men._

'You certainly weren't complaining,' I breathe into his ear before leaning back a little. 'Groping strange women in dark booths...' A sly grin plays across my face, but other inquiries await. _Savour the calm while it lasts._

His mask slips back into place. 'But you did know me,' he states. I understand from his tone that he doesn't mean that fool 'schoolmate' platitude. 'It wasn't simple recognition on your face that day.' I open my mouth to protest but can say nothing. 'It was shock.' He touches his forehead to mine and pushes upwards so that our noses touch, our eyes can't elude each other for long. His probing stare demands that I answer.

I rely on my training. 'We were just friends.'

'As we are now?' I feel his brows furrow and see the muscles at the corners of his eyes contract. He might be angry; I'm furious. I play into his trap.

'I love you, you know that!' I growl, placing both my hands on his chest ready either to push him back or throttle him.

'And then?' The expression has lightened, merely inquisitive rather than inquisitorial.

He won't think less of me if he knows the truth, will he? It won't cause him to collapse on the floor, whether to laugh at how pathetic I am or in regression, right? _No,_ I tell myself, _but I might want to seep into the floor and away after I tell him._ Half-truth. 'I had a crush on you for three years.' God, I feel like I'm eleven again, insignificant and bothersome. A burden. 'Starting in my first year.'

'I must have been blind then,' he snickers and it warms me.

'Damn right,' laughing with him.

'Afterward?' His question bears a hint of amusement, coupled with restrained impatience.

'I had boyfriends, you had girlfriends...' The words stumble to a stop. I'm too cowardly to proceed further. Outside, it's beginning to rain.

'But...' He's waiting for me to continue, his pupils delve into mine searching for an answer.

_I don't know._ 'Let's just say you're a heartbreaker, Harry.' My hands, which I now notice are bunched into fists wrapped in his shirt, relax and wind their way around his back once again.

---(Harry's POV)---

Her evasions and wriggling about make me feel like a frontier dentist in a Western trying to extract a tooth with rusty pliers. Why didn't she want to tell me we were friends, that she had some schoolgirl crush on me? I probably made as much of an arse of myself around girls at that age, if not more. But I don't think she's just reliving some old embarrassment. _This shouldn't be so bloody stressful._

'And how did I break your heart, other than being a blind prick?'

'That's not enough?' she scolds, her brows rise menacingly. The ends of her lips, however, are angling upward.

'Ginny...' I hate badgering her, but I have to know. Her reactions hint at something far worse than teenage romance gone awry.

'Things got in the way.'

'What sort of things?'

'I already told you: boyfriends and girlfriends.' She's blushing, embarrassed by the blatant lie. 'And exams.' My head lowers and shakes. She must think I'm terribly thick. She rests her forehead on my shoulder, arms entwining around me.

The simple question first, then. 'Were we seeing other people?' Her head rises a little and shakes, red hair fluttering across my nose and lips. 'Each other?' Same answer, though much more hesitant. 'What do you mean by "things"?'

Stammering a garbled response, she breaks from our embrace and rises to leave. I clasp her hand and give it a light tug, hoping that she'll join me again. 'I— I can't say...' She doesn't sound as she did before; her reticence is not compelled but intentional, as if she's protecting me from something. Hands slowly slip through one another's grasp, mine clatters to the floor as hers glides to her hip, glances along her thigh as she wanders over to the window.

---(Ginny's POV)---

Too much, too soon, tiptoeing along the edge of the precipice. He mustn't learn about Voldemort so early, without sufficient preparation. 'Really, I can't talk about it,' I announce once regaining some of my composure. To his credit, he doesn't force the issue further.

Hermione's right. His memory will have to be nursed carefully if it's to return. Right now, the course we're treading is exceptionally dangerous. The closer we come to the events leading to his obliviation, or to key memories manipulated to conform to his altered history, the more likely he will suffer a relapse in the conditioning. Should that happen, from what she hinted, he would become as he was at St Mungo's before they buried _our_ Harry. _'The screams, the flailing...'_ If it came to that, I could, if necessary, subdue him. Also, she expressed openly about something worse than becoming a raving lunatic, which would be hellish enough, but the collapse of his two worlds. Should that happen, he'll be little better off than the recipient of a Dementor's kiss. At best, as vapid as that Lockhart git. There would be no returning to either my Harry or ours, only a brittle shell.

I didn't always have to be so careful around him.

After our row in late May of my sixth year, when I felt Harry and I had reached our lowest point since Mum's death, my waking nightmare finally faded into the background. The next day Harry absconded with me as I bowled through the portrait hole for breakfast, secreting us under his invisibility cloak to a nearby unused classroom. Once he removed the cloak I saw he looked little better than I felt that morning. His eyes were almost black from lack of sleep and unfocused, his robes askew. He took my hand in his, the one he broke the night before, and squeezed, wincing at the pain it caused him. To lighten the mood and assuage my nerves, I told him to get his hand looked at, but he waved the suggestion off immediately.

'Not just yet, Gin,' he said. 'There's something I need to tell you first.'

There he was, the love of my young life, grimacing from his broken hand and confessing that he liked me, not as a friend but as a girl, a young woman. There were tears in his eyes that I knew weren't only from physical pain but from the uncertainty whether he would hear the same from my lips. My response may have been non-verbal, but I'm certain he understood. In the rare breaks as we snogged before the blank chalkboard all he said was, 'Keep holding on to my hand, tightly...' All the cursing and glowering kept the four remaining, five if you include Hermione, siblings at bay while we enjoyed what little peace we could get before it all went to buggery.

_Where the bloody hell did that owl come from?_

Bertie, the great git, perches, barely, on the window ledge and begins rapping the pane with a blood-soaked claw. Attached to his other claw is an equally gory letter spattered with patches of fur. Only Bertie, being a Weasley, would interrupt his mission for food. Harry can't help noticing the owl thrusting its message-bearing talons at me through the opened window. 'That explains Hedwig,' he announces between chortles.

I giggle too, while Fred's smudged letter puts my mind somewhat to rest. It confirms what Harry told me earlier about their night out, and acquiescing in my plan to bring him formally into the family. Sounds like Ange gave Fred a right bollocking, otherwise he wouldn't have apologised so quick or directly. Still, I'm worried that there's a whiff of further mischief between the lines, though I can't place where.

As I rest the letter on the window ledge in front of a now gagging Bertie, he coughs up a rat vertebra on to the parchment looking mildly pleased with himself. A sudden movement across the street caught in my peripheral vision leads me to look upward. There it is, another rat, looking straight at me. _Bugger and double bugger._ We're being watched. _Why have I never seen them before?_

Harry notices my agitation and wraps his arms around me. I don't know how much time we'll have before the Ministry acts. Carefully, I extract myself from his embrace and shoo Bertie off with a treat before rushing to the bedroom to release Hedwig with a quick note to Hermione. Harry follows me, puzzled by my sudden activity. 'What's going on?'

No sense in lying now. 'We're being watched.' He moves towards the window but stops about a foot away. I pull him away in any case and perform a few anti-surveillance spells on all the windows and the door.

'Why?' He standing in the midst of the hallway, more perplexed than angry.

'I don't know, Harry.' I look him straight in the eyes. 'Honestly.' He nods and relaxes a bit.

'So, what are we going to do?' It's odd having him defer to me so completely, but he recognises he's terribly out of his element and he's calm.

I finally look at the kitchen clock. _One in the afternoon?_ This has to be one of the few times I'm happy I'm not a morning person, though it means we probably only have about two hours, three at most, until the Ministry moves. Knowing Perkins, it will probably be quick and nasty, but Babbage will counsel patience. Babbage generally wins out. Time enough, then, for a little seduction.

As I glance back at Harry a grin spreads across his face. I swear that lad can read my mind.

---(Rat operative's POV)---

_Mrs Bletchley was never this late before,_ I remark silently to myself clutching my threadbare cloak and robes tightly about me sheltering from the downpour beside a waterproof fire preparing a small feast for my growing nest of spies. _She was always pointedly punctual with her reports._ An hour had passed since her expected time of arrival and I'd not seen a whisker of her. Two further hours pass until Mr Graveney returns with word that our subject was visited by an owl. Scattering my prepared offerings before the assembled throng of long-toothed operatives, I amble to the remnant of a half-wall on which I place the secure messaging device: a small, greening bronze tripod cauldron upon of a pair of bricks. A flick of the wand ignites a small controlled fire underneath the cauldron while my other hand writes a brief encoded note on a slip of parchment. The vessel emits faint trails of acrid smoke. Crumpling the note and dusting it with a trace of powder, I toss it into the vessel speaking in a low but clear voice, 'London, Ministry of Magic, Undersecretary Babbage's office.'

You'd think with all the effort the Ministry's expending on this woman that she's some former member of You-Know's inner circle instead of an Auror. But as the last war demonstrated, you can't trust anyone.

**London, Ministry of Magic**

---(Permanent Secretary Nicholas Babbage's POV)---

A well-burnished bronze cup coughs a note upon my desk. Dudson must be panicking that the Weasley woman found a café his rodents haven't themselves discovered. _Oh dear._ Why am I saddled with these dreadful incompetents?

I collect the Weasley file from my locked cabinet and venture towards the office of my lady and mistress, the Minister of State for Magical Law Enforcement, whilst formulating how to extricate myself from the inevitable imbroglio that will ensue once Grub Street receives word of this sordid fiasco.

Unfortunately, when I arrive the Minister is in conference with another official, that reedy, weedy Weatherby of all people. Hiding the file behind my back within the folds of my deep grey robes, I request a private meeting with the Minister, but Madam Perkins insists that anything we might discuss may be spoken before him. She waves off my remonstrances that this particular matter ought to remain between only the two of us, so I begin the best way possible.

'Minister,' necessarily taking the tone one does explaining something to a small child, 'it has come to my attention that a certain situation may have arisen in the northern capital on a matter in which the administration has heretofore foreseen little or no progress that, given the information presently available, may cause a measure of perturbation in the operation of this Department.'

'Excuse me?' Madam Perkins splutters.

'Yes?' Really, I don't know how I could say it more plainly to the Minister without informing that interloper.

'What did you just say?' I repeat what I had just told her. 'In English?'

'Well, Minister, it appears that our Edinburgh agent has encountered a problem with one of his charges.'

'Who, what?'

'Dudson, Minister,' I continue. 'One his minions seems not to have returned from conducting its duties.' I wait for the information to filter through. Madam Perkins gasps and motions for Weatherby to leave her office forthwith.

'Not the Weasley woman?' she splutters after the door is shut and I've locked it with a spell.

'Yes, Minister.'

'Maybe one of his rats was caught by a cat,' she chunters.

'From what Dudson says, it was an owl.' I tell her that an owl with bloodied talons visited Weasley woman, one unfamiliar to the other rats. One can almost hear the cogs begin to mesh as the Minister struggles to find an escape route to this problem. Our dilemma is thus: should we consider her an immediate threat and respond with a wet solution, the Department might seem not simply overhasty but downright tyrannical, especially as it would be against a family that had done and had lost so much during the war; however, if we do nothing, the truth will out, and we, the both of us will drown in the bile of society as conspirators in one of the two great infamies of our age and be forgotten in the deepest, darkest gaol. Which, it might be said, could be little less than what we deserve.

Government isn't about just desserts, though. It is about what is necessary, expedient, and possible. Five years ago, there was really no other option than allowing countless innocents be slaughtered by roving bands of Death Eaters while so much of our meagre resources were wasted protecting that boy, no matter what he did. True, by the time we finally put our plan into action, the attacks were decreasing, but even that Granger girl agreed with our proposal.

'What should we do?' she pleads, her hands clenching and unclenching upon her hunter green ink blotter. One can see her dark brown hair greying further as her panic takes hold. In order to distract herself, she pulls her rich black pinstriped cloak tightly about her as an ill wind from the past howls about her office.

Personally, I would recommend waiting. Miss Weasley will neither surrender nor fall without a rather dreadful, destructive, and expensive fight, while Potter is an unknown quantity, if he's still there. Damned Fidelius charm. Minister Perkins is, however, an impulsive sort. How to put it in a way even she will understand? 'Minister, sometimes the best answer to such a dilemma,' a note of panic as she realises there are only two options, 'is to wait for the situation to unfold rather than forcing it.' She's on the edge of her seat now, gulping like a selkie after a long dive, holding her head in her hands. 'Following Dudson's report, I suggest sending four from Special Section to keep a closer watch on her and,' a pause for a careful look round to make sure all the doors and windows are closed, 'the other one.' I raise my eyebrows to make sure she doesn't mention the name aloud.

'You mean...' She's now sitting upright, a look of terror on her face.

'Yes, Minister.' The selkie impression begins again.

'How much do you trust this Dudson's appraisal?'

'Well, he has proven useful in the past, but you know those people from Hufflepuff aren't always the brightest sorts.' Most of us Permanent Secretaries come from Ravenclaw, swift and flexible of mind, not burdened by the glory seeking nonsense of the Gryffindors, the wanton ambition of the Slytherins, or the bumbling simplicity of, well, you know.

'I'm from Hufflepuff,' Madam Perkins avers.

'Oh, I am so sorry.' It's always a pleasure to see her grimace at that reminder.

---(Lupin's POV)---

The beetle on my other lapel transmogrifies into a scraggly-haired wasp beside me. 'This had better be good, you...' Rita grunts, silenced with a sneer.

'Yes, my delectable maiden of mischief,' my voice drenched in antipathy, 'it's something that will place your name amongst the respected journalists of our time, rather than amidst the gutter press.' A mixture of pleasure and disbelief plays across her face. 'Werewolf's honour,' I continue with a toothy grin. Odd, she doesn't seem to consider that sufficient justification for her presence.

'How did you bribe that crone with four bloody bottles of drink and a pair of cups?' she demands. 'Seems a petty price to pay for something...' She glances at the non-descript folder emblazoned with a purple saltire and swallows. Hard. 'Is that...?'

'Administrative Order XIX-L2/JOS/98/312e from the Department for Magical Law Enforcement,' I proclaim while opening the folder. 'And the bribe, as you so vulgarly term that exchange, consisted of _five_ bottles of thirty-year-old Taransay whisky and two goblets of finest goblin-wrought silver with gold and platinum inlays, bearing the armorial crest of the noble and ancient family of Black.' She understands the second part of the trade very well now. 'Taransay hasn't been distilled since the stills were destroyed shortly after the '45 Rising. You know, Culloden and all that.' Blank stare. 'Muggle history. Any road, bottles of Taransay are appraised at several hundred galleons each. That entire gift was, in essence, a king's ransom.' Ordinarily, Rita is unappealing. Completely blanched, she's appalling.

As I suspected, even the one page summary and the explanatory note have been encrypted. Fortunately, I'd studied such spells in school, instead of paying attention in History of Magic. A few muttered spells and some exquisite wandwork, if I say so myself, and _voilà_, all is revealed. With the exception of the order itself. _Sodding hell._

'What is that?' She's bounding about trying to read the document, parchment and quick-quotes quill ready to prescribe poison to the world, or, if I can decode this troublesome conundrum, perhaps save a couple of lives.

'An administrative order, enacted five years ago, signed by the Minister of State herself,' I eventually reply. Mistress Clarke might be an archivist, but the proper incantation is on the tip of my tongue and my wand arm is awaiting the requisite gesture from my brain.

'Isn't that covered by the seventy-five-year rule?' I'll hex her if she interrupts my thoughts again. Another glower forces her into the background.

'_Sialagogos_.' Worth a shot. Helping Hermione swot for those Healer exams has paid so many dividends over the years, and this is no exception. The summary provided no information whatsoever. I quote:

_A modest proposal to ensure the security of wizarding and non-wizarding families within the assembled nations of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland by selective excision of certain historical references susceptible to tampering by persons individually or collectively, or groups, for seditious or otherwise illicit purposes._

And that was the pertinent part of that page. The explanatory note is in even worse bureaucratese and replete with citations to a plethora of statutes, orders, and regulations. I tell Rita to copy those pages, after freeing them from the folder with another charm, to occupy her whilst I rifle through the order itself. Here we are. _Harry James POTTER, admitted to St Mungo's Hospital,_ etc., etc. 'Copy this down, and hurry up,' I demand. Ordinarily, Rita would have answered with a snide remark followed by a boot to the shins, if one was lucky. But she can snort out, or invent if truth be told, a political scandal quicker than a niffler can detect a galleon. Consequently, she produces four quills to transcribe the four-page order and its accompanying five-foot-long report folded into the back of the folder and lays two blank scrolls on to the desk. Though I despise thinking it, I'm impressed.

'You're not the only cunning one around here, you cur,' she declares with the hint of a self-satisfied grin.

Hermione's year long proscription was too brief a sentence for this witch.

**A/N:** () Charlie had died in Romania, Percy had exiled himself from the family. Any resemblance to the work or life of any other person, living or otherwise, other than those instances mentioned above, is either coincidental or unintentional, and perhaps both. Since I'm not getting paid for any of this, please fund me with reviews...


	11. Beaters and Hounds, Part 1: Two English ...

**There and Back Again Lane**

Ch. 11 – Beaters and Hounds, Part One: Two English in Scotland

**Interlude: Passers-by**

_Rustling of robes, chattering._

**Oliver Wood (OW):** Hello, and welcome to this, er, summary. I'm Oliver Wood, Keeper for Puddlemere United and former Captain and Keeper of the Gryffindor House Team. Go Gryffindor!

**Katie Bell (KB):** Oliver, why are you such a prat?

**Lee Jordan (LJ):** And that was the lovely and talented former Gryffindor Chaser and Captain, Katie Bell, now with Puddlemere United as well. I'm, of course, Lee Jordan, WWN Quidditch commentator _par excellence_ and regular contributor to _Quidditch!_, the magazine of the beautiful sport.

**KB:** Don't I get to introduce myself?

**LJ & OW:** No.

**KB:** Gits. You lot are the reason I'm not in the books that much.

**Alicia Spinnet (AS):** This is Alicia Spinnet, Holyhead Harpy and former Gryffindor Chaser. I think that's all of us.

**LJ:** Yeah, Dean... stop drooling Alicia. If this was a Muggle mic you would have electrocuted yourself. Where was I? Yeah, he's busy with his exhibition at the British Wizarding Portrait Gallery.

**AS:** Who knew art could be so... fit.

**KB:** And Nev's in Italy...

**OW:** Nev now is it? Something I should know?

**KB:** Dunno. Never seen a man blush before, so maybe...

**LJ:** Salacious details can wait.

**AS:** Hopefully not too long.

**LJ:** Remember why we're here?

**OW:** Contractual obligation?

**KB:** OK, OK. The summary.

**LJ:** Actually, how much of this shite are we really supposed to know?

**OW:** None of it, I think.

**KB:** Brilliant.

**LJ:** OK, so what's gone on so far?

**OW:** Harry defeats Voldemort, gets obliviated, meets Ginny, he starts remembering.

**KB:** My question is, does Auror training last two years or three, because really, this story should be six years after Harry defeats You-Know.

**AS:** How's that?

**KB:** Well, Ginny has another year at Hogwarts, right, and three years of Auror training and two years with Harry. And he's got four years of university as well as two years with her.

**LJ:** Yeah, but they spent the last year of each together, so...

**OW:** Did they?

**AS:** I think so.

**KB:** OK then, we'll let that issue slide for now. What else is happening?

**LJ:** As far as I know, Ginny and Harry met up again in Edinburgh, Fred's getting an earful from Angelina, and Ron and Hermione are panicking.

**OW:** What about Lupin?

**KB:** If only he was younger...

**LJ:** Katie...

**AS:** He's in the vaults with that Skeeter cow.

**OW:** I can't think of a more disagreeable way to spend a day.

**KB:** That's just because she wrote you were a knock-kneed pillock.

**LJ:** That was pretty hilarious.

**AS:** Was that after we beat you or before?

**OW:** Bugger off, the lot of you.

**LJ:** We don't really have any backstory on what happened in the intervening years, do we?

**KB:** A few more domestic scenes could have livened it up a bit.

**AS & LJ:** As long as they were in bed...

**OW:** Pray that neither Fred nor Ron hear this.

**KB:** What about that secret-keeper nonsense?

**OW:** Aye, that's fallen into the background hasn't it?

**LJ:** Who do you think it is?

**AS:** Somebody obvious, of course.

**KB:** 'Hide in plain sight' and all that?

**AS:** Yeah.

**LJ:** Malfoy.

_Laughter erupts._

**OW:** Where is that little git?

**KB:** Hopefully rotting in hell with his father, after what he did.

**AS:** Who got him?

**LJ:** Wasn't one of us or the other lot, I don't think.

**KB:** Nev?

**AS:** He did fill out well after his fifth year, didn't he?

**KB:** Well fit, our Nev.

**LJ:** Out of the gutter and back on the kerb, ladies.

**AS & KB:** Berk.

**OW:** I faintly remember Fred saying Neville and Ginny were getting married.

**AS:** Nah, never got 'round to it. Too much past between them. Think they were still fixated on their losses, kind of fell together as a result. Fell apart for the same reason. Least, that's what Ange said.

**LJ:** Cute couple, though.

**KB:** Didn't know you had it in you, Lee.

**LJ:** An old romantic, me.

_Sound of an arm being slapped._

**KB:** Still, one woman's loss is another's gain...

**OW:** As long as you're ready to play next Tuesday, I don't want or need to hear anymore.

**KB:** Never used to be such a prude, Oliver. I remember just last month...

**OW:** And I've some tales 'bout you, too, dearie. Something about a certain Weasley product in the lads' changing rooms at the pitch...

_Sound of an arm(?) being slapped._

**AS:** Captains will be captains.

**LJ:** Seems like I've been chasing the wrong chaser.

**AS:** I'm sitting right here, tosser.

**OW:** Have we lost the plot yet?

**KB:** Yeah, might as well get back to the story. That's Harry? _Murmurs of assent._ My, Muggle life certainly agrees with him...

**LJ:** Stop drooling, Katie.

**KB:** Wait 'til the brothers hear you've been ogling Ginny.

**LJ:** You wouldn't...

**AS & OW:** Oh yes, she would.

**KB:** I wouldn't talk, Ollie.

**OW:** That's _Oliver_. And I was simply seeing whether the team could use another chaser.

**AS:** Methinks the wee Scots pillock doth protest too much.

**OW:** Bloody Sassenach.

**

* * *

**

Paean to Lost Days

**Edinburgh**

---(Harry's POV)---

I can't sleep. I'm so bloody tired, but I can't fall asleep.

_To sleep, perchance to dream._

Bloody Shakespeare.

Ginny's curled on her side beside me, hair splayed in an auburn corona on the pillow, her breath flicking an occasional strand to tickle my nose. Her arms, freckled from just above her elbows, cover her breasts, touching my chest, protecting my heart. She seems so peaceful, but I notice her fingers twitch, close slowly, and release as her brows furrow, her lips tighten into a grimace. I kiss her forehead where it creases as she confronts some wickedness in her dream. The fingers relax, anguish ebbs from her face, and a light grin emerges. I long to pull her tightly into an embrace but have no desire to ruin her calm so hard won. If not for a nagging thought that makes me restless, I would stay here next to her until she wakes, enthralled by her presence. Careful not to disturb her slumber, I slip my arm out from under her neck and, with another peck on her cheek, cover her with the duvet before dressing and head to the sitting room.

My left hand is still wracked by a phantom ache spurred by whatever dream woke me. I can't recall much save cracking my hand against stone, marvelling at the agony and indefinable levity. How much don't I remember?

Those girls I met at the cinema after school, in broom closets and loos, clumsy mutual groping in quiet forest groves, stealing packs of three from Dad in fervent expectation of something more. If I could trust my memory, I would've said Sarah was the first girl with whom I'd slept, awkwardly and with much fumbling, too eager, horribly maladroit. Not that things improved once I entered Uni, so both Sarah and Maggie must have been figments of someone else's fertile imagination. Their faces are beginning to shift, blend, and fade as photographs unprotected from the harsh light of day. I miss them dearly, more now that I know I never experienced their laughter, the happiness we'd brought one another, and even the sadness. As I peer into the flat opposite, my eye starts to sting but I let it flow. Even false memories deserve to be mourned.

Ginny's teenaged face, however, is coming into sharper focus. Slightly more freckled than now, but equally beautiful. A bittersweet joy replaces all those sordid fictions I've lost. Her smiles, that gleam in her brown eyes, a blissful serenity amidst chaos. It's coming back to me, slowly but certainly. How could I have forgotten these things? And yet, for all that pleasure I feel in flickering recollections, I am certain she wasn't my first. That dubious honour goes to another.

Kirstie, reading English literature at Edinburgh, was my first. Familiarising myself with my new home, with the geography and the speech. Getting lost looking for a prospective flat, I decided to walk the Royal Mile to the Castle. As I strolled up the hill toward the gates a bizarre feeling of homecoming filled my heart. I entered with the odd belief the feeling would grow stronger. Instead, it was all strange to me. Baffled by the discrepancy between sight and sentiment, I resolved to leave, travelling back down toward the Tron Kirk. There I met her as she was hawking souvenirs to disinterested tourists to supplement the meagre student's stipend. Thin but not weedy, with short dark hair and an intense, almost predatory air. I remember we argued a lot. When we finally parted ways after a couple of months, she screamed loudly enough for the entire tenement to hear that I was crap in bed. Enhanced my reputation with the local 'talent' immeasurably. Maybe I shouldn't have told her she was a feckless git with no greater ambition than to torment me 'til my ears bled white. It was needlessly cruel, though true. Besides, I still bear the scar where the mug struck me, right above the other one.

_The other one._ Will Ginny tell me how I got that? Is it the last reminder of my parents or simply the result of some fool teenage piss-up gone awry? To think of it, maybe I don't want to ask.

To sit, perchance to brood.

I would blame the weather, but the rain doesn't bother me. The sound of the rain beating against the window pane comforts me. My muscles cease their struggle against the forgotten dream. But my mind still probes, seeks ingress into the hidden spaces. Clearing the detritus of seven years, maybe seventeen, of lies and four years of Uni to bring the day I met Ginny to the fore.

Christmas in London, the weather parky and generally wet. Siobhan and I had parted without much recrimination save the loneliness brought of losing a friend through neglect. We were both too busy working and swotting that we barely had time for each other after the summer. We loved one another in our own way, but fell apart. I withdrew deeper into my books, she with her friends. The shattered carafe was simply the final straw. Can't say I was morose, more philosophical about the whole affair. Besides, I was off to meet my mates and it would scarcely have been on to barge into a pub all red-eyed and weepy. That'd been a death sentence. So, I wasn't necessarily sad the day I collided with Ginny, nor was I on the pull. Just another single bloke wandering the London streets.

I'd side-stepped this wanksta, some Ali G type, when I abruptly struck something fast-moving and solid. A pretty red-haired woman, her flushed face set in a scowl, dressed like a Goth, thankfully without the make-up. I felt a twinge of recognition that I'd presumed was simply honest attraction. Ginny was shaking her head at her satchel and its contents strewn out on to the pavement. My embarrassment at having placed her in such a predicament as well as from the string of muttered oaths streaming from her mouth banished the initial sentiment of familiarity away as I helped to collect her things. Then I heard her fall flat on her arse and fail to still a gasp. She said she knew me from school, but somehow Surrey and she didn't connect. More than anything, it was that broken link that caused me to respond automatically in the negative. But seeing her face-on flushed out a skulking remembrance, nothing entirely discernable, but certainly tenable. Until I said my name she was likewise uncertain. Yet when I did her face regained some of the colour it had before, albeit now for a happier reason. The smile on her face brought by mutual recollection radiated deep into me, awakening I knew not what except that I felt undeniably happy. By the end of the night I was positively ecstatic.

Yet it was odd, that first day. She answered questions about herself and us obliquely, spinning the tale of being a homeopathic healer, but with enough bluff and charm to dissuade me. The drink didn't hurt, either. If I'd been wary instead of anxious, I'd have noticed she was nursing her bevvy while making her enquiries, at least until she heard about Siobhan. Then we both got right plastered. Then I found out, or rediscovered, how hilarious she was, after she joined me in drowning nerves. As for the snogging, I was too pissed and too pleased to be surprised or to suss out why. I faintly remember wondering why my eyes were watering and her cheeks were wet, the both of us crying but laughing like schoolkids. Hugging each other like long-lost lovers, which I guess we might have been.

Who put me in this metaphysical purdah? Whom did I displease so gravely that they'd reduce me to an amnesiac? Ginny can't tell me, I do believe that. My world is unravelling before me. To her much of my history must be some dreadful _secret de Polichinelle_, the great truth everybody but poor Muggins can see. _A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying nothing._ Why can I remember such oft-quoted lines from Shakespeare but scarcely a whit about Ginny, about our past? I desperately want to scream at someone, but she's the only one here and she's as miserable as I am. She's a superb actress, but other than this grand comedy of errors, she never lied to me; her tell – a quick shy grin while tilting her head to the right – always gave her away.

Since I asked Ginny to marry me, even after all these revelations started to frustrate our lives, I've been thinking on fate. Before this, I'd believed that whole idea of predestination, that events are destined to happen, was complete and utter bollocks. There was no guarantee that either Ginny or I would be in London on the same street at the same time. But events conspired with us, despite all that had been arrayed against us. Then again, fate is always written about after the fact. One can say something is destined to happen, then it doesn't. I could've as easily repaired my relationship with Siobhan and be engaged to her instead. Or I could have simply stayed in Edinburgh that Christmas as I'd intended. _Bollocks._ I'm no sodding philosopher.

All I need to know is that Ginny's here with me, that we are still together, and that I'm not going mad.

I walk back to the bedroom to watch her sleep for a while. A frown creases her gorgeous face once again as she struggles against phantoms. Another kiss to the forehead and her expression lightens. It's a gift, and one I'm delighted to give her 'til the end of days.

Ginny's the best thing that's happened to me. Rare enough to meet a sporty woman, but she's terribly sharp as well. And sweet, able to get me out of a bad state either with a joke or simply by calling me on it. It sounds weird, even to me, but being around her is orgasmic: the world comes into sharper focus, everything becomes that more real, my emotions that much stronger it hurts. When she smiles, my heart's fit to burst from my chest and I've the strength of ten. I've never been so alive, or so frightened.

Back in the sitting room, I peer out the window. An oddly dressed figure across the road swiftly darts into the doorway of the tenement opposite. Stepping back a foot-and-a-half and off to the side to conceal my presence, I note the strange person casting looks at the flat. Only then I remember about the spells Ginny had cast on the windows and door, which I assume were to camouflage us from people like the tow-headed git in the anorak trying to spy on us. If it was an ordinary bloke out there, I might have gone down and had a wee chat with him. But he isn't. He's one of, er, _us_, thus beyond my ken.

Like a small child waiting for his mummy to assure him no monsters are lurking under the bed, I wait for Ginny to awaken. I feel so miserably vulnerable for the first time in _this_ life.

I hate being this weak.

* * *

**Q & A and other bits:**

To **gallandro-83**, thanks for putting me on your C2 archive! I hope I managed to answer some of your questions.

To **Foxfur**, only time will tell how things will work out... The story has begun to write itself: I originally planned this as a simple 7 chapter fic.

To **mrsmunkee**, the reason for choosing Fred over George likely owes to a couple of fics I'd been reading as well as OotP itself. In all of those works, George seemed the more sympathetic and caring of the two, thus the one who would likely takethe shortest character arc. As with Luna, it was miserable to put him on the list of the dead, but Fred made a better antagonist and threat in the earlier chapters. Both twins are great characters and but for the war I would have kept both.


	12. Beaters and Hounds, Part 2: Confidential...

**There and Back Again Lane**

Ch. 12 – Beaters and Hounds, Part 2: Confidentially Yours

**Edinburgh**

---(Ginny's POV)---

I don't know how Harry does it. Must be a bloody insomniac. Faintly, music streams from the kitchen into the bedroom, the door slightly ajar, eerily reminding me of when I first woke at St Mungo's...

The Healer was doing her rounds singing some dreadful old tune from the seventeenth-century. Her voice was quite lovely, almost enchanting, but the words, cutting through my potion-induced stupor, chilled me to the bone. Gasping in shock and into consciousness, I immediately began crying as I had when Harry saved me from Tom six years before. Terrified by my response, the healer dropped the bedpan she'd been carrying. Her song had made me think of Harry, of that bloody vision a summer ago.

Why did I have that nightmare that summer? We could have been close. We could have been happy then instead of having to wait, until he was too broken to love properly, until he couldn't remember who he was.

My fifth year, the first blow...

I remember seeing them in the lobby before the Great Hall. Cho Chang, holding Harry's hand, talking softly, asking for understanding. She was still proud. She didn't beg forgiveness, and as I thought on it, objectively despite my jealousy, she was right. I could see she still cared for Harry, though she did not love him. He, however, was detached, almost cold. As I secreted myself into a darkened alcove, I could tell from his poise how much this display of indifference cost him. Then she kissed him on the cheek, and he bowed slightly to accept it. I worried that he still cared for her. In spite of myself, I gnashed my teeth. _Why shouldn't he have some pleasure in his miserable life?_ He squeezed her hand once, nodded briefly with a smile, and retreated upstairs to the Common Room. I waited for him to pass before following her into the Great Hall. I could have sworn I had seen him glance to the side where I lurked. And a sly smile slide edging the ends of his mouth upwards ever so briefly. But it might have been a flickering torch.

Later that night, wracked by nightmares of Tom and images of Harry's demise, I decided to spend my unintentional waking moments wisely by revising. Texts, ink, pot, and parchment in hand, I ventured to the Common Room to witness the three of them in their seats before the fire. Ron, aware of his friend's reticence, discussed Quidditch tactics and what he would do differently had he been named captain instead of Katie. As my brother became more animated, Harry would cast the occasional amused glance at Hermione who would respond by rolling her eyes and scribble with greater fervour on to the parchment before her. Eventually, even Ron tired of the discussion – maybe it was his extensive use of hand gestures in demonstrating certain moves, or was it correcting Hermione about 'Wonky Feints' – leaving him hungry and eager to visit Dobby in the kitchens.

Hermione waited until Ron left the room to fuel his hummingbird metabolism before turning to Harry. 'Harry,' she asked, the anxiety palpable, 'what exactly happened between you and Cho?'

Surprised, he looked wide-eyed at her for a second until he regained his composure. He wasn't angry or offended, though. 'Hermione,' Harry began nervously, staring intensely at his hands clutched together, tensing before him, 'I don't want to talk about it.'

'I know you wouldn't talk to Ginny about it and Ron, well, I wouldn't exactly trust his advice,' she declared. Harry snorted and smirked. 'And what's going on between you and Ginny anyway?'

'You're starting to sound like Ron, Hermione,' he retorted gazing into the fire, perhaps hoping Remus might floo in a better answer before staring her down. 'What do you want to know about Cho and me?' Now that was something I hadn't expected. 'And why.'

Hermione became flustered, because, even from my rather poor vantage point (I could only see the top of her bushy hair), I noticed her fidgeting. 'I just don't want to see you get hurt again,' she replied calmly to ward off a potential outburst. 'I'd rather not see you fawning over her again.'

'What are you on about?' he growled, his voice rising. 'I was not fawning over her. If you're going to spy on my private conversations, you should at least do a better job of it.' He rose to stand before the fire, indifferent to the occasional spark landing on his robes. 'Besides, she has Michael now, or don't you remember?'

'I saw her kiss you on the cheek, Harry.' A hitch in her voice revealed she was furious but her tone was generally placatory.

'And you did the same to me at King's Cross after Cedric died,' he answered bluntly, still facing the fire. 'Doesn't mean you fancy me.' She moved forward a little to rebuke him but thought the better of it. Finally, he turned to face us, er, Hermione. 'Look, there's nothing between us, really, if there ever was.'

'You're being too harsh on her,' she stated stonily, slumping back into her chair. Harry was certainly getting to her. 'She cares, or at least cared for you a great deal. She put up with all your tantrums and kept coming back, even now.' He looked duly ashamed, the bastard. 'I remember how you two looked at each other in the hallways before she started seeing Cedric.' She leaned forward a bit, trying even harder to reach an accommodation with him. 'She liked you a great deal, Harry, but she was confused,' she continued. 'And you buggered it up.' Yes, she did say a foul word.

Harry was wide-eyed again and chuckled a bit. 'You've been hanging around Ron too much, Hermione,' he announced. 'You're starting to pick up things.'

She gave a gentle laugh herself before prompting him further. 'So, is there anything between you and her?' Despite myself, my heart threatened to lodge itself in my throat.

'No.' He paused a bit before continuing. 'Like I said on the train last summer, I hope she's with someone who makes her happy, but that's it.' I would have been satisfied by that answer, but I knew the question she'd ask next. I pleaded silently with the back of Hermione's head not to badger Harry any further, but unfortunately her bushy hair interfered.

'Is there anyone else?' she inquired as if discussing the weather.

His face darkened and he hid his eyes behind his brows. He tried to speak but hesitated. My nerves were on edge, damned vision of his doom or no. Forgetting myself, I left the shadows of the staircase. Finally, he responded with a firm but otherwise disinterested, 'No.' Slowly, I slumped to the floor.

'Harry...' _Just give up Hermione,_ I begged silently.

A devilish gleam soon leapt into his eye, though maybe it had been a trick of the firelight. His face brightened a little as an evil grin emerged. 'Now I have a question for you, Miss Granger,' he began. 'Do you need any help with Ron?' She flinched. 'Maybe a push into a convenient broom closet, a word here or there, maybe a Krum. Any little thing I can do...'

'He's coming 'round well enough without _your_ help, Harry,' she averred huffily. Before relenting. 'I'll contact you if this waiting goes on any longer, though.' It was her turn to snort, though daintily as only Hermione could. I was, however, astonished she hadn't bothered to contradict Harry.

'You've the patience of a saint, Hermione,' he said.

'I learned that from Ginny,' she replied, looking up at him. The colour on his cheeks faded a little, but maybe it had been the play of the flickering fire. Yet, as he looked up and saw me sitting awkwardly on the bottom step of the staircase to the girls' dormitories, he visibly blanched. In a second, his colour returned. He gave me a little grin and tapped his nose with an index finger twice before heading to the boys' dormitories.

Seeing Harry's reaction, Hermione had immediately spun about in her chair. She peered anxiously over the back of the seat before recognising I'd been the interruption.

Deflecting any chance for her to start on my eavesdropping, I began interrogating her. 'What was that all about?'

'Harry and I were just discussing what great prats boys are and why we girls are daft enough to fall for them.' A grin fought to reveal itself, tugging the corners of her mouth rather cruelly. 'And what were you doing there?'

'Listening to you two scheme about my git of a brother,' I answered disinterestedly. She rolled her eyes knowingly. _You think you are so bloody clever,_ written on her face. I didn't rise to it, though. 'Besides, can't sleep. OWLs and all.' _Nightmares of both real and imagined events, you know._ 'Like Harry said, you need any help with Ron, we're here for you,' I said, turning to go back up to bed.

I could have sworn she looked a bit smug when I said 'we' rather than 'I.'

That night I was sorely tempted to find Fred and George's secret stash of Ogden's they'd bequested me, despite having been named prefect. But I behaved like a good girl. In any case, either Hermione or Ron would've had my head if they'd found me singing songs about goblins in the wee hours of the morn, or head in my own sick at dawn. More likely the former than the latter.

Not all of that fifth year was bad, though. For instance, when Luna and I plotted against the gits of Slytherin before Christmas was purely brilliant genius.

Though the male of the species often forgets, it's true that Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. And Luna had been scorned far too many times by Crabbe and Goyle. Well, there had been others equally deserving even within her own house, but we decided the two biggest gits would provide the greatest amusement. Our scheme was fiendishly simple but required a great deal of work. Thankfully, we had Dobby assisting us: House-Elves are immune to Nargles.

Ah, Nargles. The cause of a great number of punch-ups, duels, and even murder in earlier times. With growing awareness among wizarding families, and of pesticide use by Muggles, Nargle populations have declined over the years. Nargles are a generally harmless infestation found on mistletoe, unless it's their mating season, which is, of course, from mid-December to mid-January. They require a mammalian host to propagate. Quite simply, Nargles are otherwise innocuous brain parasites that cause their host to temporarily exhibit amorous behaviour with anything suitably warm-blooded nearby. At this point, I would like to thank the Twins for their glorious invention of floating mistletoe, and dear Remus for devising the means of guiding it.

The scene: the Great Hall. The time: the feast before Christmas holidays. Mid-meal, while the two cretins ploughed food into their mouths in such a way even Ron would have been scandalised. I'd lent Luna Harry's Invisibility Cloak, having borrowed it myself two days before for an impromptu snogging session with Dean. (In the end I couldn't go through with it; the odd tensing of Harry's jaw as he 'happily' entrusted me with his father's legacy. Dean graciously understood, his mind on Parvati who was finally starting to crack.) There I imagined she stood at the end of the Slytherin table, directing the sprig of mistletoe with her wand until it hovered above our foes. I saw the twig do a little dance above each of their heads. At the head table, I noticed that Dumbledore was distracting Snape while dear Professor McGonagall submitted to the trail of a smile across her lips. _It's wonderful to have such supportive teachers,_ I thought.

Within an instant, Crabbe and Goyle leapt at one another, snogging each other desperately, even going so far as to tear at their clothes. The Slytherins sat there goggling at their housemates passionately giving their best as the other three tables burst into rapturous laughter. Just then, Malfoy entered the Hall – likely after having done something suitably vile – and headed towards the commotion seeking to make some sport. As the swine passed our beloved Millicent Bulstrode, Luna gave the mistletoe another shake and in a trice he was flat on the floor clawing for safety as Miss Bulstrode sought to suck the life out of him. Snape finally extracted himself from his conversation with Professor Dumbledore and, having caught sight of the offending mistletoe, incinerated it before it could do further damage. It took five big Slytherin boys to pry Crabbe and Goyle apart, and a further four to release Malfoy from dear Millie's clutches. Snape vowed to catch the culprits, glaring pointedly at Harry, Ron, and Hermione, Malfoy threatened revenge, glowering at the threesome as well, while Bulstrode glowed with delight even after the Nargles wore off. Crabbe and Goyle, however, were not seen in each other's company without at least four similarly sized escorts ready to pull them apart should the urge take hold once more.

After the Hall had at last quietened down, I chanced a glance at Harry. The briefest of smirks and a raised eyebrow flew my way. I knew I couldn't expect more, not with Dean beside me, but it was less than I'd hoped. Yet as he passed me sitting at the table, I felt the briefest of touches on my shoulder. _That smirk and that touch were at least a start._

Or the end.

For I was certainly at my wits' end there in some shabby bed at St Mungo's, crying my heart out for Harry. Had I known about the rest of my family, I doubt whether the tears ever would've stopped, though probably my heart would have. Two weeks after I'd emerged from my medication-induced coma, during which I badgered the Healers constantly for news about my family – and others, I expect – Ron came to visit me with Hermione. From their faces I knew the toll was grim, but never would I have guessed that fate could have been so cruel. We hugged and cried for thirty minutes without rest. Eventually Ron broke off, reasserting the stoic composure he must have practised while I'd been under sedation to wander the ward visiting others we knew, including Fred. Meanwhile, Hermione braced to tell me about Harry.

At the time, I hadn't found it particularly odd that Ron had left my bedside at that moment. He'd never been entirely comfortable discussing Harry around me after that 'falling-out' in late May. Now I suspect my brother felt himself incapable of keeping Harry's survival a secret. My youngest brother, brave enough to face an acromantula despite his arachnophobia, stalwart enough to be Harry's friend despite the dangers and tantrums, loyal enough to stand by Hermione despite the Weasley Is Our King fanclub, couldn't summon the temerity to lie to his own sister to protect his friend. Strangely, I'm proud of his failure even though it meant three years of misery.

Not that the lie sat any better with Hermione, to be honest. She was just better at disguising her emotions. From years spent resisting the urge to pounce on my slow-witted git of a brother, I presume. Nevertheless, she must have been shocked by how dispassionately I accepted Harry's death. I'd seen him die in my dreams enough times over the previous two years and finally the night of the last battle that that part of my heart had grown numb, perhaps necrotic from all the damage. My eyes merely drifted from her sorrowful, regretful, and imploring gaze to the ceiling. Some part of me must have remained alive because I recall squeezing her hand rhythmically before the Red Caps – as I'd taken to calling the Healers – dragged this wounded soldier back into the moors of Morpheus.

When I finally emerged from hospital, my birthday had passed along with much of my interest in living. Still prescribed a potion a day by the charlatans of St Mungo's, I sleepwalked my way through the first term back at Hogwarts. Having started a month late, schoolwork and revision alone took up most of my time. Quidditch practice occupied the rest, Harry's Firebolt the only connection I had left between him and Hogwarts. It mattered not that I was as popular as Phineas Nigellus upon my return, even managing to hex one of my dormmates – Sophie, my best friend – who had tried to wake me for Charms. It was a learned reflex after all those DA meetings, something I'm glad she understood, though she padded around me for a fortnight. I was seriously tempted to scarper after that, terrified I'd do something worse to some other innocent sod who dared mention the war, my family, or Harry near me. Surprisingly, it wasn't until Christmas holidays that I collapsed into a shattered, tear-drowned disaster.

It was Ron and Hermione's hounding to confide in them that did me in. That and St Mungo's and Madam Pomfrey's refusal to renew the potion prescription. Madam Pomfrey worried that I'd become too dependent on the continual doses. She was, of course, right to think that. I've no idea why St Mungo's stopped the supply of sedatives. Probably expected me to top myself, save them the bother of continually having to guard their consciences. Through a veil of tears and reason concealed by haar wrought by the confluence of a fiery temper and a heart in winter I remember screaming at the pair of them (Ron and Hermione, of course), a knife in one hand pointed at my chest, my wand in the other, accusing them of trying to murder me to simplify their lives, to remove the last thing that reminded them of Harry. Dear God, to look at their faces as they were then now my mind is clear... Their eyes widened by terror, their shuddering mouths uttering pleas to calm me. My shame was so great I couldn't speak with them for months. At the time, however, I Apparated to Fred and Angelina's, stumbled into George's old room, and bawled myself to sleep.

Fred and Ange tolerated my presence during the brief spells I stayed. They didn't ask questions, either. That helped silence the ghosts and stop the clacking of the skeletons as I pressed them deep into the recesses of my mind. By the time the NEWT results came, I'd resolved never to let my emotions rule me. Even so, I was determined that I should live as happy and fulfilling a life as possible.

The results permitted me any choice of career. I chose the path that I thought would grant my thirst for vengeance the freest rein. Instead, my violent thoughts were tamed and focused on exacting justice. As for pleasure...

I did not want for suitors, but few were suitable. Of course, Auror training interfered with my 'love-life.' Finally, after a few brief relationships – none consumated – there was Dean again. After four years, he and Parvati had had enough. Parvati was in her second year of Healer training as an Apothecary, surprising all of us, especially Lavender. Dean was in between professions. Though he'd done well on the NEWTs, he gained his living through his art, first as an artist for the Quibbler before exhibiting his works in galleries. We met as friends, we became lovers a month after. We made far better friends than lovers and were wise enough to admit it. That's not to say he was a bad lover. I remember some of the first-time horror stories, but I'd experienced none of that. Dean was knowledgeable, attentive, and generous. He thankfully used condoms rather than relying on dicky contraceptive potions. But it was more sex with a friend than making love, pleasant yet somehow lacking. We adopted the excuse, mostly true, that we'd grown apart because of my training schedule and his travels. We still keep in touch. I kept Ron ignorant of Dean, though Hermione knew, as did Fred and Ange.

The next was a fellow Auror recruit. It was but a brief dalliance and just the one uncomfortable time. Better left forgotten, really.

Then there was Neville. I can honestly say I loved him not simply as a friend, just not as devotedly as I did, I do Harry, both _ours_ and _mine_. Neville could've been an Auror, but he'd fought long and hard enough as a member of the DA and the Order to want a different life. Occasionally he'd get this haunted expression on his face, same as we'd seen at St Mungo's during the Christmas holidays of my fourth year. We'd shared a great deal, and together had lost much more. He'd become famous because of the war. A hero almost rivalling Harry. He sought me out knowing that to me he was 'just' my dear friend Neville. In the end, though, it was who we weren't that defeated us. On rare occasions, especially when he was distracted, he would call me 'Luna.' And when we rowed, there had been times I'd called him 'Harry.' Other times, as well. So, when I refused his offer of marriage, having thought on it for a day, he couldn't decide whether to express relief or regret and settled on a blinking bemused look. I'm glad to report, however, he's not having any such problems with Katie.

Ironically, it was my refusal to accept Neville's hand that brought me to the Leaky Cauldron the day I met _my_ Harry. Hermione decided I deserved a right bollocking for throwing my life away yet again. I argued that marrying someone during Auror training is simply not on – for security reasons, if nothing else – and that, unlike her and Ron, I was far too immature to get married. She accepted neither of my points, prefering to berate me instead. She forgot, however, that I wasn't Ron and was totally unprepared for the vehemence of my retort. I left there shaking with rage after I'd finished, leaving her speechless and possibly a bit terrified.

Harry. Too much of my bloody life revolves around him. Would that it didn't I might have been happier. Yet I wouldn't trade what I have right now for the world. Except for my family to be alive and together, and that this Harry remembered the past. Now, _that_ I wouldn't exchange for anything. The twins together against the world, or at least abusing Filch with their Skiving Snackboxes, Charlie with more tales about dragons, a giddy Tonks by his side. Bill, still pestered by Mum about his ponytail and dragon fang earring and Fleur's flitting eyelashes. Mum with her bone-crushing hugs that reduced us to five-year-olds, but which, despite ourselves, we always allowed to linger. Dad, with his bizarre yet useful fascination with all things Muggle. And Percy. He had his moments, until he became an unrepentant git.

Harry. Dour, impulsive, pensive, taciturn, and sweet. _The_ Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived I'd longed to gape at adoringly in ten-year-old hero worship. _Just_ Harry, Ron's friend, the brave boy who prevented Voldemort's return. Then, the object of infatuation of an eleven-year-old girl surrounded by brothers. Afterward, he became a painful reminder of my shame, a source of continuing embarrassment, and a blind callous bastard aided in that last category by my interfering prat of a brother. Slagging _Neville_ of all people. At least he'd had the bollocks to ask girls out, unlike some raven-haired, green-eyed boys. In my fourth year, I imagined him as just another boy, another brother, not so much a friend but someone I'd liked to know better. Somedays I even believed it. His behaving like a prat that year certainly helped. The fifth year...

A year pre-empted by a false vision – very well, a partially true vision – beset by an eighteenth-century comedy of errors as well as two family tragedies. That was the year I discovered how close love and hate resided in the human heart. He started as a git but regained my friendship through kindness and cautious attention. He demonstrated his love for my family and to me as a brother, as a friend. We flirted, only casually; at least, so I thought. Seeker practice played havoc with my budding love-life, and his. But while he rarely tended his garden – bloody Susan; no, that's not fair, as she was there for him – I constantly had to weed out rumours of my continued adoration of him. Harry did his part in quelling them, I must admit, though not always with the intended results. _Oh_, Harry.

Then that sixth year... I don't want to think on it...

And now? Now... He allows me to forget the pain of his three-year absence and occasionally of my family's loss. When he embraces me in the early morning or after I'd done some fool thing, I feel like a giddy teenager and often have to suppress a fit of giggles. When we kiss, I'm left with no doubt I'm a woman, and the only one he loves. As his hands fall into mine, cusp my cheek, entwine around me, explore me, it's an aching delight. My mind is freed from clutter, the fog of the past and present clears so that I might see our future, of how things ought to happen. He can tell when I want to talk, and when I _need_ to. He knows when I'm lying to him, as well. Clever sod.

And I didn't lie to Hermione when I said he's good in bed... Sorry, miles away. Harry might not have Dean's experience, but he knows the proper techniques and he knows my body, my reactions better than I thought anyone could. Coitus may not always result in earth-shattering simultaneous orgasms, but I'm left with no doubt of our compatibility. At least, that's what I think the glazed look and grins on our faces mean...

_What is that...?_

It's not the music nor his occasional and slightly off-key singing that wakes me but the smell of food. I may not have Ron's appetite, but I am a Weasley and a stomach isn't something to be ignored for long.

By the pleasant odour and the sound of bacon crackling, I can tell Harry's contenting himself with a simple fry-up and hope that I'm early enough to convince him to prepare two plates. I let the wafted aroma guide me to the kitchen, my eyes still half shut. At least until I reach the doorway, where I'm confronted with the oddest sight. He's dancing, oh so jerkily, to the music. I try to stifle a giggle, but it bursts forth as a gale of laughter. He abruptly turns from the stove the very model of embarrassment.

'Pity you stopped,' I finally manage though still battling a grin. 'I was quite enjoying myself.'

'For that, you only get three rashers and no tomato,' he declares in his best haughty voice.

'Though you do dance more like Ian Curtis than Stuart Murdoch.' His right eyebrow raises at the comment.

'I should never have introduced you to my video collection,' he responds shaking his head in mock disgust. 'And now you're down to two.'

'And sing like Mark Smith.' That wins a glare and a smirk.

When he's finished, he gives me six rashers of bacon and four sausages as well as two eggs, a tomato, and toast. Not much for a Weasley, but it's a start.

We eat in silence, enjoying the calm. Harry's nervous about something, however. I send him an inquisitive look a few times, but he simply motions that I should continue eating. With one rasher left, I finally ask him outright.

'There's a man outside, across the road,' he says. 'Bloke in an anorak.' He tells me precisely where he saw our watcher last.

_Thomas Catesby._ Member of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad's Special Section. A professional, and a cold-hearted bastard. Need to be in that job. The spells are still on the windows, but will need to be refreshed in a couple hours.

'What is he?' Harry inquires.

'Someone who might wish us ill.'

'Ginny...'

'We'd best get out of here as soon as possible.' I break from the window and head towards the bedroom to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything. The clock shows it's gone five. _Why does he let me sleep in?_

'What about Hedwig?' he asks. 'And what aren't you telling me?' He follows me through the flat. More angry than anxious now. Tell him or simply insist that he believes me? He should know what we're up against.

'Wizarding police special branch.' He curses. I get my kit on. With my dragonhide knuckle-duster gloves, boots, and vest on I look like a deranged Quidditch player. Who knows what Harry thinks of me now.

'So what are you?'

'An Auror,' I reply automatically.

'Yes, you can be at times.' What? The bugger's smirking. At least he's properly dressed.

'An Auror, Harry,' I declare, 'not a horror.'

'Does that mean the sun shines out your arse?' When I look back at him, all I see is this snide grin. He must be nervous, or he wouldn't be so sarcastic.

I stick my tongue out at him before answering properly. 'We're like the SAS.'

'Bugger.' He blanches before recovering. 'So he's special branch, you're SAS, so what the hell does that make me? A prisoner of state?'

'Nothing of the sort, Harry.' It's not really a lie, is it?

I hoist my kit bag on to my back before using a Metamorphosis spell. Now I resemble a common or garden goth. Thanks be to cyclical fashion trends.

Harry's even more befuddled. 'This will take some getting used to,' he announces. The bugger's thinks this is for fun?

'We don't have time for that!' I swat him once with the wand. He now looks completely non-descript. Maybe I ought to have made him a goth as well, but it's too late.

'Come on, Harry,' I exclaim, pulling him along by the hand towards the door as if he was a misbehaving child. 'We have to go, now!'


	13. Beaters and Hounds, Part 3: Stay as You ...

**There and Back Again Lane**

Ch. 13 – Beaters and Hounds, Part 3: Stay As You Are

_There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy._

—William Shakespeare, Hamlet, _Hamlet_, Act I, scene v.

**

* * *

**

Interlude: A Letter to the Academy

**On the Malfunctioning of Muggle Technology in Areas of Concentrated Thaumaturgic Energy, **by N. Longbottom, OM1, BMA (Hogwarts, 1998), LAM (Corvobianco, 2001), MMA (Dun-na-nSídh, 2003), Fellow of the RSAS and the RSMH

Presented to the 21st Annual Conference of British and Irish Professors of Muggle Studies, A.P.B.W. Dumbledore Memorial Theatre and Ballroom, Hogsmeade (2003)

Long have wizards and witches with a keen interest in Muggle science been frustrated by the seeming failure of modern Muggle technology to operate within areas of concentrated of thaumaturgic or magical energy such as Hogsmeade. The simplest explanation, albeit a blessedly inaccurate one, is that magic and technology cannot co-exist or, more correctly, co-_operate_. Such is certainly not the case; if it was, the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office would not exist! The truth is that while Muggle scientists have engaged in exhaustive studies of their environment and perhaps have a greater theoretical understanding of it, their ability to control their world depends on mechanisms that are regrettably imprecise. This imprecision, combined with the use of highly reactive compounds or fragile or easily disrupted components has meant that witches and wizards who have ventured to use Muggle technology have encountered disaster more often than not. With proper reinforcement charms, however, volatile substances can maintain their basic stability, or at least be no more problematic than they would in the Muggle world...

**

* * *

**

Call for an Escape Route

**Edinburgh**

---(Ginny's POV)---

We left the tenement through the front entrance with a seven-minute interval between us, planning to meet again at the southern end of the Middle Meadow Walk. I told Harry to be discreet and to act as if he didn't know me, if he even recognised me at all after the transformation despite his insistence he would. I went first, heading south to circle the block while Harry travelled the more direct route northward. Checking the mirror I'd palmed in my right hand several times to ensure Catesby wasn't trailing me, I marched as fast as I could towards the Walk. Ten minutes I've been waiting and still no sign of Harry. _Where the buggering hell is he?_

OK, so it was only five minutes and he brought coffee from our favourite stall. Glowering at me with a feigned 'kids-today' eye-roll, head shake and scowl before blithely looking away, he crosses the road carefully avoiding traffic and spilling our drinks. When a practised frowning glare and a winking eye from me tell him we're not being watched, he hands me mine. 'I'd have preferred tea,' I teasingly protest, only to receive his beaker instead.

'I thought you'd be difficult,' he mutters in mock annoyance, the faintest trace of a grin flickering on his face.

Milky tea, just as I like it. 'Trying to seduce me, you dirty old man?' I inquire affecting _naïveté_ and a worried look.

He grimaces as if the thought would never cross his mind while his hand cups one of my buttocks for a light squeeze. Though startled, I spill not a drop. He simply wanders up the path at a slow pace, turning around to shrug innocently. 'Must be ghosts about.' _Cheeky monkey._

It should be heartening that he's accepting this new situation so well. But this is Harry. He's obviously worried. The forced attempts at humour, the nervous scanning of his environment, a cautious but unsteady pace, his hands thrust deeply into his pockets, and even the simple act of buying us drinks are all these signs of how truly anxious he is. Casually, I catch up with him and quietly tell him to relax a little, that the situation is well under control. He's not entirely convinced. 'And,' he notes, 'neither are you.'

He remarks quietly that I walk like a soldier, marching in step as we walk side-by-side. _Old habits._ It's odd, though often comforting, how Auror training automatically takes hold whenever I start to worry. Now, however, is the time for another portion of that education to assert itself, that of assuming the entirety of one's disguise. I break step and loosen up, adopting a youthful, slightly ghoulish gait. After all, Snape was a good teacher in his roundabout way.

I wonder, however, if Harry's put out by my assumption of his black hair and green eyes. The temptation to tease him a little, to bring some levity into our predicament, was simply too strong to resist. A part of me is worried a part of him finds this situation strangely attractive.

Harry and I separate again as planned with him ambling safely anonymous in the lead. I secrete a small hand mirror into my left hand to keep a wary eye behind us. Yet our tour through the Meadows along the Middle and North walks is uneventful, and I begin worrying that his sense of caution might lapse, that he'd become too casual in our jaunt across town.

But that concern is misplaced. As we cross Buccleuch Street zigzagging our way northward, I note the odd bloke in a navy raincoat skulking behind us in the small mirror cupped in my left hand. Harry's playing his part a little too well, not saying a word to me and taking the occasional gawping detour to storefronts. I somehow resist the maternal urge to grab him by the elbow and pull him along. Then I notice him furtively glancing behind us, waiting, before he grazes near me, surreptitiously squeezing my hand as we wait at the corner of Gifford Park and Clerk Street. 'We're being followed,' he mumbles. A swift sly smile crosses my lips, to which he replies with his own.

After crossing, we head north along the road towards the Old Town. In the middle of our progress down Clerk Street, Harry breaks off and continues down a side road. _What's he doing?_ Our pursuer passes the road without a glance in Harry's direction until a pair of strong hands grip the man's raincoat and thrust his back against a wall. _Bloody cowboy..._

---(Harry's POV)---

Waiting for our pursuer to pass the corner, I try to control my breathing and hope that he's close to the shop. The roads and pavement are strangely deserted except for those scurrying home with their evening shopping. The expectation is driving me mad. This was nothing like all those false childhood memories or even the rare after-pub brawls. I don't know what the buggering hell I think I'm attempting. But here he comes, bold as brass, shuffling forward with a surreptitious but steady eye on Ginny. I reach around to clutch both of his lapels and spin him against the shop's outside wall. Surprise must have been in my favour because he's a hard bastard.

'Who are you!' I demand shoving him once more with all my might against the bricks. But he's fierce and stronger than me. He snarls, his face positively, rabidly canine reminding me of that Rottweiler I'd had the misfortune to annoy one summer.

He tries to break my grip by forcing my arms apart while aiming a knee at my bollocks. I shift to avoid the latter allowing him to break free as I crumple from the hard blow to my thigh. _I am a dead man._ He follows the knee with a nose-breaking punch that drops me flat on my arse. I feel the blood as it dribbles past my lips and angrily try to blink away the mist veiling my eyes. My glasses, if not broken, are at the very least digging deeply into my face. Still, I aim a solid heel at his knee as he lunges forward sending him back to the wall causing him to drop something from his right hand. Somehow I manage to snatch it before it hits the ground.

_What the...?_

Just as I witness one of the strangest things in my remembered life, the sodding bastard boots me in my parts most private. Fortune favours me somewhat as the kick to his knee made him unsteady and weakened the blow as the adrenaline coursing through me shrouds the pain momentarily. Enough for me clutch onto his leg with my right arm and stab the bugger in the abdomen with my left with his whatever-it-is. He stumbles backwards again as I release his calf and trip him so he falls hard against the wall. About this time, I realise I'm silently begging all that's holy for the woolly suits to come and take us both away, certain that I've at least given Ginny time to scarper. But I've still some fight left in me, and Mad Dog is more than willing to demonstrate his fighting prowess.

For the second time in as many minutes, however, I'm graced with another odd sight as Eric Cantona – or is it Trinity from the bloody Matrix, it's hard to tell in my present state – sails through the air and knocks that buggering hooligan back into touch. _Back of the net..._

Ah, Alan… But I feel like Lynn, roundly abused. _I watch far too much telly._

Time begins to catch up with me again, as does the agony from my booted bollocks and broken nose. As I gradually roll off my back and onto my knees, I dry heave a couple of times. Ginny rifles through the man's clothing, removing odds and ends such as his pocketbook and the wand from my hand. 'If you try anything like that again,' she growls, her face inches from mine, 'I will do that,' – pointing with the wand to the sorry sod now resting in the recovery position – 'to you.'

I manage to bite off the sarcastic reply before it reaches my tongue. She's but seconds away from proving her point to reinforce the lesson.

'Are you OK?' The air of menace has left her voice but threatens to return.

'Fine,' I squeak. 'I think my breeder's card's been revoked, but otherwise...' My glasses, like my nose, are well and truly broken.

'Don't say that.' _The tone is back though tinged with anxiety._ What's with her? Is it Hermione's pregnancy? Another question that can wait until later, when she's calmer and I'm better able to move.

'Sorry if I'm out of sorts, love,' failing to contain the sarcasm despite myself, 'but I'm a wee bit tender now.'

'Then let that be a lesson to you.' The words are hard but are spoken with forbearance rather than exasperation. She helps me clamber back onto my feet, casting a quick but cautious eye about to ensure the police I'd prayed for earlier weren't coming. Guiding me firmly down the empty road she mumbles oaths with every breath, her face red from aggravation and exertion. Finally, she tosses me into a doorway.

'I really should leave you like this,' she scolds while repairing my glasses and nose with a couple of quick flicks of her wand, swatting my head for good measure, continuing to glance around that no one's watching. 'All those times _you_ admonished me about risking _my_ life like a bloody fool,' she continues, glaring at me with green eyes narrowing to pinpricks, her wand pressing against my sternum, 'while you're lucky to still have balls after that little misadventure.'

'You going to use that or are you going to browbeat me to death?' I eventually manage with a nod to the wand.

To my surprise, she lowers her arms to give me a quick kiss. 'God knows why I love you, you daft scapegrace,' she swears before swatting my arse and prodding me towards St. Leonard's Street and Arthur's Seat. 'I sometimes don't,' adding an evil little grin.

It's weird enough to kiss someone you love but barely recognise. Even stranger when she appropriates some of your features – the green eyes, the black hair, though extended to Robert Smith proportions – for her own. I am ever so grateful she at least kept the shape of her face somewhat similar to her own. Still, her appearance makes me wonder what I look like now. _Bugger, she's changed me into a trainspotter now..._

---(Ginny's POV)---

I recognised our pursuer despite the disguise. David Martin, another one from the Millies' Special Section, his mannerisms a dead give-away. Given Martin's brutal reputation, I'm surprised Harry was able to hold him off that long. Indeed, if Harry hadn't been distracted by the sparking wand, Martin might have been the one with the peculiar walk – once he woke up, of course – instead of Harry.

If we haven't been rumbled by now, that little bit of magic – and Harry's – certainly revealed our position. Doubtless the next two operatives will be headed in our general direction soon enough. Though it's highly unlikely I'll be able to prevent it, we should avoid getting bumped again if possible. I use the small hand mirror to warn our contact we're running behind and might bring some trouble with us.

Harry's rather disgusted by his anorak, but it should keep him out of trouble. _Serves the bleeder right._ I insist that he remains at the front as if he was just another innocent passer-by, to not look back so much, and to scarper should we get bumped. We continue down St Leonard's until we pass the police station where Harry, as always, chuckles. We then wander casually up to Nicolson Street on our way directly into the Old Town.

But 'Gaffer' John Richardson awaits us, smoking a fag beside the Tron Kirk, which means that Herodotus Fletcher was posted on the western route. Mirroring each other in mutual recognition, the Gaffer and I shake our heads. Though we're supposed to be secret operatives, we see through one another's disguises. I haven't bothered to change mine, seeking instead to pull them out of their holes before tossing them back bruised and better aware of what separates Aurors from the rest of the wizarding world. Admittedly, it's against the rules to show off, but I doubt Mr Richardson or his three colleagues will bother to report me, professional courtesy and all that rubbish.

Harry and I are just crossing the South Bridge when I see the Gaffer heading towards us. His cover blown, Richardson has little choice but to meet me directly. For Harry and me, the only options are over the side, chance our way through traffic, or marching steady onward. Harry's too far in front of me to safely catch his attention without attracting the Gaffer's interest and crowds of tourists and locals travelling southwards make it difficult to prepare an appropriate response. A break between the packs of passers-by causes my heart to lodge itself once more in my throat.

Harry's only about a yard from the Gaffer when the older man flicks the fag end over the bridge onto the road below, exhaling a shroud of smoke through his nostrils. It must have been one hell of a surprise for dear Mr Richardson to see my dimwitted lover's left fist through the haze just before it struck. I don't know whether to be surprised that Harry knew the Gaffer was a threat, shocked that Harry of all people would commit such a, well, _Slytherin_ act, astonished that the gamble actually paid off, or furious that my thick boyfriend didn't take what I had told him after the Martin incident seriously. Harry doesn't even bother to look behind as the Gaffer slowly sinks to his knees, finally slumping against the bridge's low stone wall. Instead, the daft prat merely shakes his probably broken left hand in an effort to numb the pain.

Having snatched Richardson's wand and other indicators of wizarding status while assuming the role of concerned bystander, I can at least be certain neither Catesby nor Fletcher will learn of their leader's humbling sidelining. Catesby will take too long to reach us but Fletcher is likely too close. I should, however, have enough time to impress upon Harry the importance of paying attention to what his _far more knowledgeable_ almost-wife tells him.

He waits for me at the corner of Hunter Square seemingly fascinated by his injured hand. Even metamorphosed his downcast eyes reveal how annoyed he is, but that look becomes instantly sheepish when he sees how irritated I am. He interrupts me just as I open my mouth. 'He was looking directly at someone, something people in cities tend not to do,' he answers the unasked question. 'He had a predatory eye and with those boots,' he continues, pointing to my transfigured boots, 'I could tell he wasn't police, least not an ordinary one.' I'm still tempted to enlighten him about his incredible stupidity, but I wait a few seconds for him to finish his explanation. Lucky for him, he apologises. 'I know I shouldn't've hit that bloke. I should've left him to you, but I didn't want to run the risk of him hurting you. I was a daft git.' He doesn't break eye contact though sorely tempted to do so.

My aggrieved and aggravated expression doesn't change. 'This once,' I snarl, 'and never, _ever_ again, you hear?' He nods, nervously certain I would carry through with my threat. I decide to take point now, letting him trail at a discreet distance. We circle round the Kirk before making our way down Fleshmarket Close onto Cockburn Street. Unfortunately, Fletcher arrives on the High Street just as I reach Cockburn.

Harry was unaware anything was amiss until he saw me spin about. As he turned, he caught the red jet of magical energy straight in the face sending to the pavement in a sickening heap. Fletcher's more sadist than sage and only now does the thought that he has provided me with a clear shot penetrate his thick skull. I duly oblige with a disarming spell followed immediately by a powerful stunner that throw him back a good five feet. _So much for the representatives from the Special Section._

I rush to Harry's side fearing the worst. The obvious one: his head may have struck the pavement. On cursory examination, I can see no blood and his breathing is regular. His eyes are unfocused, but that might be due to the spell. _That's_ what concerns me the most. Even if the fall caused no permanent damage, Fletcher's stunner might have scrambled his mind further. I'm tempted to simply load Harry onto my back to await a proper assessment of his condition, switching the small kit bag to my front, but I doubt that would pass by without comment even on Cockburn Street. Nevermind that I'm not altogether certain I'd be able to reach the Seelie Gate in that manner without incident. Besides, the desperate desire to assure myself he's all right is overpowering.

Swiftly ennervated, he slowly rises, looking round. I clutch his chin in a vice-like grip and peer into his eyes praying for some sort of recognition therein. 'Ginny,' he asks, 'what was that?'

'No time.' _He's OK._ Stowing Fletcher's wand in a pocket with Martin and Richardson's, I pull him to his feet and drag him by the hand down the south end of the Close and across Cockburn to the north end. He's not altogether coordinated at the moment but is able to maintain a steady pace nonetheless.

'Can you tell me now?'

'In a bit.'

We venture midway down Fleshmarket Close and with an abrupt left stand before Seelie Gate, the entrance to Haseltoun, Edinburgh's wizarding community. An ancient, abraded etching in the stone of a winking fairy, in a somewhat lascivious pose if truth be told, announces the border between the Muggle and magical worlds. I mouth the key while touch the carving's lips: 'I dree our kin's weird.' The wall before us dissolves revealing a solid goblin-crafted iron door. With a single tap of my wand, and a Galleon bribe to the fairy to keep the gate closed for an hour, the portal opens on to Haseltoun's high street, Conynger Close.

The close is aptly named, delved into Calton Hill like a claustrophobic rabbit-warren replete with stores and public buildings like toilets and an unused bathhouse, splitting off into wynds and other closes. Befouled but welcoming, a place of fear yet of security as well, of confinement and freedom both. Along with the Old Town itself, it bespeaks the eldest memories of Auld Reekie's past and all of its forgotten stench. Harry, however, is paying no attention to the road and has completely forgotten his questions. The hill's amber ceiling has enchanted him. Not that I blame him, really. Its idealised depiction of the weather – presently a sun-streaked evening – is remarkably beautiful, especially with the added details of the planets, constellations, and other important astronomical bodies annotated in silver medieval script, faint though it is against the golden brilliance emitted by the stylised sun. I squeeze his hand firmly, finally bringing his eyes to mine. They're full of childlike astonishment as well as a little adult fear of the unknown and incomprehensible. I kiss him in such a way both of us forget what we look like at present, letting us pretend that we're still in our flat, mere moments from our bedroom, from happiness. And for a brief while, the tension lifts and we're able to wander hand in hand down the gentle slope towards the centre of town.

We attract a great deal of attention from the locals in our Muggle garb. A swift detour down Gowk Wynd with its host of murky windowed pubs and museums of the absurd – the former only beginning to bustle while the latter have closed – allows me to transform us again into a plain, older wizarding couple. Harry has become so used to these changes he now merely shakes his head at them. Deep down he knows why, and I likewise feel his annoyance at having to hide. _Better to be hidden than apart,_ we tell each other with a shared look and smile.

The buildings' stones, protected from the weather outside by the Hill, bear the marks of history nonetheless. Hogsmeade may have figured more prominently in the goblin rebellions – or mutinies, as some of our kind would call them – but some edifices in Haseltoun are still irreversibly blackened by the fires that spread outward into the Muggle Old Town. For instance, the Millies' barracks on the corner of Conynger and Sheogue Lane is an ominously ebony structure glowering over the environs. The Gringotts branch in spotless alabaster marble at the foot of Brae Wynd glares right back, however. Other structures sport more recent injuries. The gutted apothecary's on Boobrie Close and the pockmarked storefront of Moubray and Foulis, the Scottish stationers to Her Majesty's Sorceress, the Minister for Magic, on Birse Wynd are wounds from the last war. Like us – even though Harry doesn't know it – Haseltoun wears its scars with pride.

As we circle around Inner Grove Hill with its copse of hazel trees still prospering on the summit, I chance another glance at Harry. He's overwhelmed. Panic sets in as the fears that this much exposure to the wizarding world will cause him to relapse no longer simply seep into my mind but flood. Another squeeze of his hand breaks the town's hypnotic spell and reveals he's still out of danger. It takes him less time to recognise me in disguise, but that's likely because we're holding hands.

We reach our destination at last: Glamis and Cawdor, Wizarding Assurance. An old man in threadbare robes is waiting for us just outside. One eye protudes ominously. Like a jeweller's loupe, it appraises us in minute detail, polishing off the disguises that the other eye, squinting through a slit as thin as a razor, has bruted away.

'Alice, I presume,' the codger enquires in a rasping grumble.

'Mad Hatter,' I respond with a curt nod, hand on my wand just in case.

A corpse-pale hand emerges from the greying frayed robes to wave us brusquely inside while his tongue works its way round active yet toothless gums. Harry's eyes flit between the pair of us, old duffer and his lover, before rolling once more towards the amber ceiling as he shakes his head with a sigh of feigned exasperation. Another swat on the arse sends him in the right direction, though.

Once inside the empty store, I remove the glamour from myself. Harry looks positively relieved, though a little surprised I hadn't done the same for him. 'Thought it was you,' the ancient fellow declares in the midst of a hacking cough. 'Wha' you doin', eh? Bringin' a Muggle down 'ere, 'n' all,' the old codger mithers, pointing a withered finger at Harry. 'Wha's 'is name?'

'Colin Firth,' Harry answers immediately. _He did not just say that._ Harry gives me this look of pure innocence and I feel the blood rushing to my head, sweat beginning to form, and tears threatening to become a torrent down my cheeks. _You git!_ I look at my shoes daring myself to withstand the pressure on my jaw. 'Are you all right, dear?' he continues. 'You seem a little peaky.' _My God, I'm in agony here._ I punch his arm, hard. He winces a wee bit and looks more concerned. I try coughing to conceal the laughter when the strain gets too much.

'You should look intae tha' cough, dearie,' the old man offers. 'Sounds summat nasty.' He advances on Harry, giving my daft prat of a lover a very stern expression and a sharp poke to the chest. 'An' you best think of a better name, ye glaikit wee prick.' The wizened creature swings about, heading towards the back room. I swear he's muttering 'Colin bloody Firth' under his breath with a chuckle. Harry probably thinks this is just some grand adventure.

Instead, when I finally look up, Harry appears genuinely worried. 'I thought you, I mean, _us_ lot didn't know much about, er, Muggles,' he mutters. This is only the second time I've ever seen him so vulnerable. The first was with the smoking toaster.

'But some of us, like me, do,' I reply with a small grin. 'So schtum on the pop culture references.'

He hugs me closely to him more for privacy than intimacy. 'Then tell me why I can't tell anyone my name,' he whispers. I fall into the embrace to quietly dissuade him, swearing to tell him later but he's not convinced.

We follow the old man to the back of the store and are confronted by a woman in her twenties with a heart-shaped face, green hair and brown eyes dressed in frayed hand-me-down robes. 'Old' Tonks is smirking at me appraisingly, eyes glancing at the bloke beside me. After a quick sweep of the tiny storeroom with his eyes that reveals neither the old man nor an alternative way out, Harry returns her gaze.

'So,' she says with a tone of feigned displeasure, 'who's he really?'

Harry starts walking around the storeroom, examining the products on the shelves. 'Don't mind me.'

'Obnoxious ickle git, isn't he?' she notes nodding in his direction. Harry turns and smiles, but at least he stops toying with things on the shelves.

'He has his moments,' I reply with an exaggerated rolling of the eyes. He slaps a hand over his heart and appears stricken. 'This might help.' I remove the metamorphosis charm from him as well.

Tonks gazes over my lover with an appraising, almost wistful eye. 'Looks more like Hugh Grant than Colin Firth now,' Tonks declares with a mildly lewd smirk.

'This is Tonks,' I announce, indicating her with a sweep of the arm. 'Tell her who you are, Harry.' Tonks's brows knit at the mention of his name and she looks at him trying to find a familiar face. In turn, his playful expression wanes and becomes guarded, stern.

She looks at me with either disgust or dismay and scoffs, 'Another one?'

'Are you sure?' he asks but his eyes don't leave Tonks and his body tenses.

I merely nod. 'Full name, Harry,' I request. When he says his name, her eyes grow to the size of Galleons and she stumbles into his arms for a hug. I don't know what amuses me more, the stunned look on his face or Tonks's reversion to her old bumbling self. Although she's holding him a little too long and too tightly. _He'd better not be thinking what I think he's thinking..._

Well, this is amusing. The green hair's eerily fetching, and she's rather comely, but she makes a disconcertingly convincing old man. Besides, she isn't Ginny who, come to think of it, looks fit to murder me... 'Er, Miss...?'

'Ahem.'

Instead of ending the embrace, she pulls me off my feet and into it as she cries with a mad laugh. Finally, she releases us both with a kiss. Only then do I realise I'm crying as well. Harry simply looks dumbfounded. 'She's one of _us_, Harry.'

'Oh, _that_ explains everything.' He's become much more sarcastic ever since Martin booted him in the goolies.

'Merlin, I thought you were...' Tonks stops as she notes me glowering at her, fit to hex.

'I was what?' Harry growls with a steely gaze.

_Bloody hell._

She stutters and blusters for a time waiting for me to intervene. Truthfully, I'm torn between letting her tell him and ensuring he doesn't suffer a relapse. Finally I proclaim, 'She can't tell you, Harry.' He rolls his eyes and raises his hands to the heavens in supplication uttering a few select oaths. Tonks blushes while I sigh in exasperation.

'Sorry,' he mutters before sitting on a nearby stool clutching his head in his hands. Apparently, he's decided to keep quiet to learn more.

'Harry, I have to talk with Tonks in private for a while.' He merely nods, head still in his hands. 'Will you be OK here?' Even before I utter the last word I know he isn't. By the time we reach him, I'm not certain he'll ever be.

* * *

**Q & A:**

To **selenis**, thank you for your kind comments, and I like your ideas regarding Ginny's possible outs regarding her status as an Auror. Certainly some more tempting alternatives to my poor solutions! :) I wish I hadn't felt it necessary to kill off so many as I did, especially the Weasleys and Luna (and particularly after I'd written that all the male Gryffindors in Harry's year had survived--not very clever on my part, that).

To any questions I haven't yet answered, I apologise. The process of reformatting is discombobulating me a bit at present. Bear with me. :)


	14. Fickle Dame Fortune

**There and Back Again Lane**

Ch. 14 – Fickle Dame Fortune

_It's easy to speak of betrayal. But to betray somebody you need an opportunity, and once you have it you've got to take it. It's like opening a window in jail. Everybody would like to, but you don't often get the chance._

—Céline, _Journey to the End of Night_, Ralph Manheim (trans.), 297

**

* * *

**

Glamis and Cawdor Wizarding Assurance, Haseltoun, Edinburgh

---(Ginny's POV)---

When Harry collapses onto the back room floor vomiting the meal Martin's boot failed to dislodge, my mind races in a blind panic. Training takes hold again. Tonks is in shock, likely due to misplaced and, at the moment, entirely inappropriate guilt. She's blubbering an apology that I immediately interrupt, roaring for her to shut the shop. Swiftly moving to Harry's side, I notice he's shaking terribly, trying to shake off whatever's caused this reaction. The time to speculate the exact causes of this seizure can wait. Once the tremors end, I mop his brow with the sleeve of my robes and perform a Scourgify spell. She returns deathly pale, desperately needing something to occupy her mind. I tell her as calmly as I can to brew a pot of tea while I scribble down a list of Harry's symptoms and a brief description of his current condition for Hermione. Tonks nods nervously, padding clumsily from the room still muttering her regrets.

From the sound of things, she's busily reducing the shop's kitchenette to kindling as I carefully levitate Harry into her small room overlooking the tiny back garden. Making him comfortable in her small bed, I perform a cursory examination on him. Fortunately, his pulse and temperature have returned and his eyes respond properly to my lit wand. Seeing him in this wretched condition, I'm sorely tempted to lie beside him, holding him until he wakes. But Tonks is calling me from below, her little tea-brewing adventure obviously a success. I place the little hand mirror on a small nightstand next to head of the bed to watch over Harry as he sleeps while she and I sort out the mess I've conjured.

When I finally return to the back room I don't see Tonks my old friend or the bumbler, but my superior. She scowls disapprovingly at me, her light blue, almost vulpine eyes attempting to pierce mine in their quest for answers, her hair as black as her mood. I'm astonished she's managed to master herself so quickly with all of the surprises I've thrown at her in such a short space of time. Despite the intensity of her gaze, I will myself to return it rather than focusing on the brown glazed earthenware teapot in the centre of the small table. Left with the options of either explaining my actions outright, thereby opening myself to further enquiries I might not be able to answer, or to let her take the initiative, allowing me time to craft an appropriate, face-saving response, I opt for the latter. Smiling to relieve the tension, I sit opposite her, using the teapot as a buffer. She's having none of that nonsense. But first I ask her to place her small mirror on the table so we might watch over Harry.

'Ginny,' she begins, complying with my request but shaking her head in frustration, 'what have you done?' Already a question I can't answer. What can I say? _I was thinking with my heart, not my head,_ to which she would inevitably reply that I'd certainly been thinking with _some part_ of my anatomy, not necessarily the heart. Of course, I could reply that was more a male thing, but that would only make her more suspicious, leading to probing questions which Harry with whom I thought I was sleeping. I'm not ready for that sort of inquisition right now. So, I simply shrug.

'Is he the one you've been seeing?' she continues. I nod. 'You've been with him for two years and you didn't tell me?' she hisses. Her countenance becomes positively feral. Once upon a time, she might have looked on me indulgently, praising my good fortune. That time would have been five or six years ago. Now she seems hard-pressed not to send me before the Wizengamot, if her tongue doesn't flay me dead. My omission of Harry's name in those girlish, occasionally lewd discussions wasn't intentional. After I'd told the troublesome twosome about Harry – just before losing control of my temper – Hermione warned me not to tell anyone else about him. Even in my bitter fury after that discussion I saw she had a valid point, especially after Fred's reaction earlier that night. My silence about Harry saved him from the intolerable burden of fame, and allowed me to keep him to myself. Perhaps I was selfish, but present circumstances indicate otherwise.

The guilt card demands to be played. 'Look at him,' I growl, pointing to the mirror, thankful I set the mirror at his end to only transmit, not receive. He's resting somewhat peacefully now, yet any odd hitch in his breathing sends shivers down my spine. 'Do you really think he'd have been ready to meet everyone again?' Though I'd learned my technique from the best, Tonks isn't dissuaded.

'Merlin, Ginny,' she huffs. 'I'm your friend _and_ your bloody superior. You should have told me.' _She's good._ 'You know Headquarters has to vet prospective spouses and long-term relationships, especially after the war.' She pauses for an instant, for effect. I stare her down letting her understand she's not convincing me. Noting my response, she sighs heavily and with great sadness. 'He might not be a security risk, but he should at least know the risks to himself.'

Wanting to show my willingness to make a clean breast of things, particularly since nothing could be gained from my continued reluctance, I decide to reply directly to her concerns. 'I was worried about moles within the Department.' Her eyes widen as she flushes with rage. 'I know you're sound, but you'd be obligated to tell other people, and who knows how many would find out about Harry after that.' She purses her lips but bites back a retort. I've only modestly mollified her irritation, but I desperately want her fully on my side without implicating too many people. 'For instance, Perkins.' She grimaces at the mention of the junior minister, our head of department.

'I wouldn't have told _anyone_ else,' Tonks avers. 'You could have even magically compelled me to keep mum.' Her eyes reveal the absolute truthfulness of those statements.

Playing the chastened child, I gaze solemnly at my lap. 'I see that now,' I swear, 'and I'm truly sorry for keeping it from you.' _And I am._ Other than Hermione, Tonks is one of the few good friends I have left after my disastrous seventh year, three years of Auror training, and two years as an Auror and pseudo-Muggle. To lose her trust when I, and Harry, need it most is unthinkable. 'I know you would have defended Harry's secret with your life,' I plead, 'yet I felt' –_we_ believed – 'the fewer people who knew he was still alive, the more likely he would recover.' _Wait for the penny to drop..._

'Recover from what?' she demands incredulously. 'Why couldn't I recognise him, or he, me? What exactly is going on?' Her furrowed brow and slightly open mouth reveal the depth of her disbelief. She would have asked those questions anyway, but a little prompting never hurts and saves me from revealing who knows what.

'Harry's been living as a Muggle ever since the last battle,' I reply. 'Well, ever since he left St Mungo's, in any case.' I elaborate on what little Hermione told me of his 'treatment', his experiences with accidental magic, our life together, and his few memories of his past as a wizard. 'Most of what he remembers seems to involve either physical or emotional pain for some reason.' Though Tonks is interested in what I've said, an odd twitch of her mouth announces my explanation isn't entirely satisfactory.

'Now, don't take this the wrong way, Ginny,' – the precise phrase that immediately raises my hackles – 'but Harry's a human being, not an exhibit or an experiment.'

Hammering the table with my fists, I send the teapot and mirror dancing. I wince from the sting of the barb as I feel the blood rushing to my face, my heart beating at a furious pace. 'I'm well aware of that,' I growl through gnashing teeth.

'I'm not so sure you do,' Tonks calmly states. 'You're observing him, yes, and you may feel the resurgence of some teenage crush, but I fear you may be doing him more harm than good.' To press her point home, she holds the mirror in front of me. The image of the man I love fighting off some hideous nightmare vindicates her position and sends me deeper into the throes of guilt and worry, driving me mad. With a forceful swipe I try to bat the mirror from her hand. Failing that, I lunge at her across the table.

She rises with alarming speed, brandishing her wand in a defensive pose while grabbing a fistful of my hair. 'Don't make me hurt you, Ginny.' I see a note of fear in her eyes, but it's well hidden behind a steely resolve and a wealth of experience. Her professionalism more than anything makes me see my actions for what they are. Overcome with shame, I collapse onto the table, narrowly avoiding the upset teapot.

I feel her hand soothingly stroking my back. Still, she can't help digging that dagger of guilt deeper. 'I've no idea how you ever passed Auror training with a temper like that.'

'This from the former queen of clumsy,' I mumble to the table.

'OK, so we've established that we're both near failures,' she remarks while I groan, 'and that you truly love Harry.' To that last comment I mutter muffled thanks. 'So,' she continues, 'who else is aware of this fiasco?'

_Damn and buggery._ Slowly my dishevelled self slumps back into the chair. She takes pity on me and asks rather than forcing me to answer.

'Does Kingsley know?' Kingsley Shacklebolt, head of the Auror Division, member of the Order. Outside of his family, Tonks is the only person with the temerity to call him Kingsley. He indulges me to call him 'governor,' mostly because he finds it terribly amusing with my West Country accent. _Does he know Harry is alive?_ I believe so and say as much. 'Does he know that you've been living with Harry, that you're going to marry him?'

_Er, no?_ I muster enough courage and strength to shake my head. For some reason, I'm fighting to stay awake as a feeling of tremendous fatigue overwhelms me. _She must have put something in the tea._ I'd only had a couple of sips, but that must have been enough. As the substance takes hold and my arms drop to my sides, a part of me is impressed by the ingenuity of my opponents. Never would I have suspected Tonks to betray me...

_Where am I?_

I bolt upright, my fists clenched as I try to interpret my surroundings. With great consternation, I realise I'm clothed only in a linen nightshirt and my knickers. I sincerely doubt whomever put me in this nightshirt was so kind as to leave my wand in close proximity. But at least they don't seem to mean me any harm.

To my complete astonishment, I'm in a cot next to Harry's bed. A brief chortle catches my attention. Tonks is smirking from the doorway, probably due to my pugilistic waking pose. 'Maybe I was wrong about Auror training and your temper,' she notes with a chuckle. 'You failed the 'constant vigilance' portion of the test, though.' _Thanks for the reminder, Tonks._ A glance to my left informs me Harry's still asleep despite the noise I hear from downstairs.

'Who else is here?' I inquire, not wholly trusting my old friend.

'One who apparently already knows,' she answers with a raised eyebrow. I'm so bloody tired of these idiot games.

'Buggering hell,' I hiss, 'who is it?'

Tonks rolls her eyes and sighs, mildly annoyed that I'm unwilling to play today. 'Ron, with a little help from our lord and master.'

_Double bugger._

'He's not _too_ angry,' she asserts, 'he' meaning Shacklebolt. 'Maybe a pound-and-a-half of flesh would suffice.'

'I'll see where I can oblige,' I reply. Deep down, submerged by the draught she'd administered to me, I feel the rage burbling. 'You should have let me tell him.'

'Ron beat us both to it,' she informs me. _That gangly, dimwitted busybody._ 'I wasn't in favour.' Noticing my expression of disgust, she adds, 'Hermione must have put him up to it.' And that just makes everything better. My head falls into my hands. It feels like I've woken after drinking too much but not enough to have a hang-over: queasy stomach, muddled thinking, and cotton-mouthed. I wish I could fall asleep again. Tonks must have enraged me to make the potion work quicker. Seeing I'm leery of waking, she grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet.

'Get washed and dressed, dearie,' she prompts as she steers me towards the bathroom. 'He only has an hour until practice starts,' she declares whilst unceremoniously thrusting me inside, shutting the door behind me. With alacrity I wrench it back open.

'What _did_ Shacklebolt say?' I ask her retreating back.

Tonks turns and waves an admonishing finger at me. 'Tut, tut, that's _Mr_ Shacklebolt to you,' she answers. 'And you get nothing until you make yourself presentable,' she says, wrinkling her nose at my purportedly offensive odour.

Having treated myself to a brief lukewarm bath and dressing in the clothes she's provided – a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and clean underclothes from my bag – I wander downstairs expecting the worst.

At the bottom of the stairs I'm greeted by an awkward bear hug delivered by my dear brother. He relates how worried he and Hermione were when they heard I'd left London. I pat his back somewhat hard half to thank them for their concern and half to stop him suffocating me. He finally realises my plight when I start spluttering a gasping reply. Yet he continues to hold my upper arms firmly and asks how I'm doing.

'As well as can be expected,' I grumble, his worried expression thwarting most of my desire to castigate him for ratting me out to Shacklebolt. A certain harshness must have crept into my voice as he releases me and steps back several paces.

'He had to be told, you know that,' he pleads.

'By me, Ron,' I growl, 'not my brother.'

Tonks coughs to end the argument before it escalates and motions for the three of us to sit at the table. Neither Ron nor I budge, however. He stands there, arms akimbo, leaning to look me straight in the eye. He must have learned that technique from Mum. Or Hermione. Either way, he's standing just out of slapping distance. 'When would you have told him,' he prods, 'after he sees the engagement ring or during your first trimester?'

'As soon as Harry and I returned to London,' I retort, leaning forward menacingly, tilting my head slightly to the right to throw off the daggers flung from his eyes. 'Until yesterday, my back-story was intact, and if your bloody wife hadn't been so soddingly insistent on me telling Harry, it still would be.' With that last outburst, I move a pace forward.

'Don't you dare blame Hermione for your indiscretions,' he barks. 'Neither of us wants to piece you back together after another disaster because you can't let the past be.' He advances a step as well.

'Let me remind you who was the bloody architect of the _original_ disaster in this affair, Ron,' I snarl. 'About five-eight, bushy brown hair...'

Ron rises to his full height, his face red with a mixture of fury and shame. A cold rage is coursing through me as I endeavour to keep Tonks's drug at bay for a little longer. I wonder which of us will crack first.

In the end, we both do. Likely, the draught is affecting me while Ron doesn't want to cause another longstanding rupture between us. We hug again, mutually now. I pretend to fall asleep in his arms even as the potion makes its resurgence.

'Did you have to give her so much?' he enquires.

'If I hadn't I doubt either of us would still be in one piece, Ron,' Tonks counters.

'You two make me sound like some wicked goddess of vengeance or something,' I utter in my half-feigned half-awake state, stumbling towards a chair. Theatrically I wave my arms about, almost falling to the floor. 'I have become death, the destroyer of worlds,' I pronounce in an ominous voice.

Ron looks unnerved while Tonks is peeved. 'That was a god who reputedly said that, Ginny, not a goddess,' she scolds.

'Seven out of ten, then?' I'm enjoying this now.

'Put her right,' Ron demands quietly.

'But...'

'Sort her out _right now!_' he interrupts as he saves my head from striking the table. _That was much too close…_

'Hie me to a nunnery, knave,' I mutter between giggles. Simulation and truth are collapsing into one as Tonks's potion clouds my mind. My brother props me upright in the chair.

'A simple antidote should cure her.' Of what? I haven't a care in the world now. Except for Harry. Dear God, _where is he?_ My fading eyes search the room but all I see is a blurry brother and Tonks.

Ron restrains me from falling again as I seek to leave the chair before gingerly allowing me to rest my head on the table. Faintly I hear him say with exasperation that he's almost late for practice. He must have come by portkey as I see his hazy form vanish with no corresponding crack from Apparating. Probably can't Apparate in or out of Haseltoun. Vaguely, I remember that the ceiling and the gates prevent that mode of travel.

'Ophelia, I presume?'

'If you let me drown any further, I'll have to hurt you.' I seem to be doing an awful lot of mumbling to this table lately. _As long as it doesn't answer back, you're still sane,_ I tell myself.

She places a small mug in front of me. 'Can you drink it, or shall I play the doting mother?'

I try to raise either arm but can't. 'Mum, please.'

'You must be allergic to that particular draught,' she grumbles. Tonks sits me upright in the chair and uses a gentle hand on my forehead to raise my head to the ceiling, opening my mouth. I can just discern the crossbeams from the upstairs floorboards. An odd burning sensation travels down my throat almost causing me to cough. 'Good girl.'

'I haven't been that for a few years now.' The potion is making its way through my bloodstream, returning some vigour to my limbs.

'Oh, I know,' she playfully admonishes. 'Living in sin with two, or was it three men?' I don't bother to answer but try for an innocent face, but I probably look drunk.

'Yes, you didn't live with Dean, did you,' she finishes. I'd completely forgotten I'd told Tonks about Dean. Maybe Fred or Angelina talked, though. 'Or that man from Auror training.' If they knew about him, how did Shacklebolt not know about Harry before? 'A regular scarlet woman, you are.'

'How did you know about Simmonds?' I finally manage. 'It was only the once.'

'He _wasn't_ nearly so discreet, or so honest,' she replies, the stress on the past tense obvious even in my slowly recovering state. 'Until I had a word with him.' An evil smirk crosses her face.

'Hmm, I always wondered why he left Auror training quickly thereafter.' I'm tempted to go into her relationship with Charlie – I'm not the only sinful woman here – but I've hurt Tonks enough already and I've no desire to receive another dose of that draught. Or of her rage. Besides, I'm quite pleased she defended my honour back then.

She presents another pot of tea before me, forcing a groan from my lips. It's a different pot, but that means nothing. 'It's only tea this time,' she vows. I refuse the offer of a mug nonetheless. She nods her head approvingly with a grin for my renewed vigilance a while pouring herself a cup. Making sure I witnessed that she was indeed drinking the tea, I pour myself a cup. 'I'm surprised that you didn't notice I'd spiked the tea before,' she mentions after my first sip.

'That's because you can't brew a proper pot,' I remark, feigning a grimace at the taste of the over-strong cuppa. 'And you're supposed to add the milk or cream _first_, not after.'

She acts offended but knows it's the truth. 'I've never been one for the domestic arts,' she confesses, making a face as she drinks. A relaxed silence falls between us as we drink the bitter brew. She waits until I have a good mouthful before she asks her first question.

'So,' a smirk growing on her lips, 'how's necrophilia been treating you?'

My eyes widen but I manage to keep all of the tea in my mouth until I swallow. There are so many reasons, beyond the obvious tactlessness of the question, why I wouldn't want to answer. Perhaps she's vicariously trying to relive the happy times she had with Charlie, or maybe she truly believes I can't distinguish between the two Harries. Yet _my_ Harry never knew the cold grip of the contemporary era's most evil wizard and consequently is more relaxed and though studious (albeit not nearly as much as Hermione), a little less single-minded, and better able to express himself. He's what Harry could have been given the opportunity. OK, so the differences between the two aren't as great as I pretend. If they were, he wouldn't be Harry, right? _Why am I trying to convince myself?_

'Fine,' I eventually splutter. Tonks looks at me quizzically.

'He's not dead,' I add, 'just different.' The words sound hollow even to my ears.

'Only a question of degrees,' she asserts.

The rejoinder falters long before it reaches my lips whilst I nod sheepishly, my acting skills evading me yet again.

'I would say it's that wizard debt rubbish that made you behave so rashly as to even consider seeing him, never mind become engaged to him,' she elaborates, though waving a pacifying hand to assuage my temper. 'But from what you've said over the past two years, and noticing how happy he's made you, perhaps you simply love him for who he is, regardless of debt or girlish crush.'

I don't know whether to believe her or not, and my face must show it.

'Honestly, Ginny, I mean it.' That's three of six then, unless Fred and Angelina are simply playing along.

'What did our lord and master say?' I enquire.

'From what Ron said, Kingsley's against the engagement.' My fists begin clenching on the table. Tonks admonishes me with a glare before starting again. 'Both for your sake and Harry's. As one of the few who knew Harry's still alive,' she pauses briefly to restrain her own irritation at having been kept in the dark, 'and as an old member of the Order, he swore to protect both Harry's memory in our world and his life among the Muggles, should that ever be necessary.' She begins to chuckle a little, leading my eyes away from my empty cup. 'Not knowing exactly where Harry was certainly made the latter rather difficult, though.' I can't help but laugh as well.

'You know that Aurors' spouses tend to be at greater risk than those of most other Ministry officials.' I nod briskly. 'We must maintain the complete secrecy of our operations as well.' She pauses once more. 'That's why the Ministry generally opposes marriages between Aurors and Muggles.' _I remember all of this rubbish from training._ 'Harry's the worst case scenario. He's unable to defend himself and, should someone discover who he is, he'll act as a beacon to the press, remaining Death Eaters, or who-knows-what-else.' Pouring herself another cuppa, Tonks appears to be considering her next words carefully. I'm not sure whether it's an act or not. Then she asks the question I've been pondering for over two years.

'If there was that Fidelius charm on Harry as you said, how were you able to recognise him?' His voice. A little deeper, but even after an embarrassing collision with what he thought was a perfect stranger, more self-assured. _Am I his secret keeper?_ No, otherwise Tonks would've recognised him when I mentioned his name. What if... Hermione's certainly clever enough to do such a thing, and probably suspicious enough given the circumstances.

'I think I'm Hermione's out.'

'What do you mean?' Tonks is completely puzzled now.

'Hermione was the one who performed the charm,' I inform her. She's aghast.

'Why would she want him Obliviated and untraceable?' she demands. 'She was one of his best friends!'

In spite of all their meddling, I'm starting to feel sympathy for Ron and Hermione, especially Hermione. What I've heard of those confused months immediately after Voldemort's defeat – little better than a collection of jumbled anecdotes, really – places her radical decision within its proper context. Regrettably, only now do I see just how difficult it would be to make such a choice would be when pressed by those who think they know better. But the tables are reversed here, and I'm the one who has to decide about Harry. If Ron and Hermione had trusted me enough back then, if only they had waited a little longer, things could have been so very different. Still, I wonder if she even had nearly as much of an opportunity as I do to find alternatives, or as many allies. 'She did what she thought was best,' I reply, 'and as I found him, he wasn't exactly untraceable, was he?'

'How did she do it then?'

'I don't think it was a conscious decision,' I deduce. 'Only the Muggle government knew where Harry went after his stay at St Mungo's, and I doubt she planned for me to meet Harry outside of the Leaky Cauldron that afternoon.' Tonks is frowning in her effort to stay with my flimsy explanation. 'I believe it was that "wizard debt rubbish" you mentioned earlier,' I say with a laugh. 'As he hadn't died, the link between Harry and me was never severed. I was still beholden to him, and he recognised me, sort of, for that same reason.' Triumphing in my perspicacity, I am almost deaf to Tonks's one word assessment of my hypothesis.

'Bollocks.'


	15. Circles and Roundabouts in Crepuscular T...

**There and Back Again Lane**

Ch.15 – Circles and Roundabouts in Crepuscular Towns, Part 1: Of Serpents and Mirrors

_Questions are a burden to others, answers a prison for oneself._

—Village saying, _The Prisoner_

**

* * *

**

A Brief Discussion on the Nature of Magic

**Accidental magic** is the product of an unschooled mind or one under great stress. Potential thaumaturges – i.e., untrained witches and wizards – begin manifesting their magical character through acts of _accidental_ or, rarely, intentional _wandless magic_, often as a reaction to fear. Thaumaturges tend to stop exhibiting such uncontrolled magic for a number of reasons. First and foremost is that their intellect has been conditioned to focus their magical energy through their wands. Wands permit the disciplined mind to execute powerful feats of sorcery over great distance with vastly improved accuracy. Accidental and most wandless magic, however, tends to be short-ranged, unfocused, and, more often than not, problematic if not dangerous as it is often a reaction to extreme stress.

Second, wandless magic is generally difficult to perform in areas of highly concentrated magical energy such as Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade. As most wandless magic generally requires the caster's intense concentration, the presence of so much _controlled_ magical energy within such an area renders manifestations of wandless magic extremely problematical even by powerful thaumaturges. The effort of redirecting controlled magical energy is simply too great for the limited results that could be achieved. It is, however, interesting to note that while accidental or wandless magic becomes increasingly difficult in an environment of concentrated thaumaturgic energy, conventional sorcery is noticeably easier to perform and produces more pronounced effects.

It must be noted that accidental and wandless magic are not necessarily interchangeable terms, as accidental magic is one of several types of unconventional or wandless sorcery.

—H. Granger, 'Accidental magic,' in _A Student's Glossary of Magic_, Egeria Press, 71b Diagon Alley, London

**

* * *

**

Interlude: Match Report

'Hello and welcome to the middle of the story so far,' announces a cheery voice over the wizarding wireless.

'Lee's on fine form today,' Ron mutters from behind his butterbeer.

'Quiet, I can't hear the bloody match report!' Fred bellows, stilling the dull murmur threatening to erupt.

'We'll hear nowt if you keep yelling, love,' Angelina grumbles.

Hermione wanders into the sitting room with a tall glass of orange trailed by a pair of knitting needles clicking away at a pair of booties. 'So, what's going on so far?'

'We'll never find out if everyone keeps _bloody_ talking,' Fred snarls.

'Here we go…' Ron declares as the adverts finish.

Lee Jordan begins by presenting his co-commentators, Oliver Wood and Alicia Spinnet, with Katie Bell listed as 'indisposed,' followed by some strategic coughing to cover lewd comments by said co-commentators. 'Well, Oliver, what's your impression of the first half?'

'Hmm, it's moving a little too slow for me,' Oliver grunts. 'I mean, look at Ginny. Here she is, perfect bloody opportunity, we can say "bloody" on air, right?'

'For Quidditch matches and the like, yeah,' Lee admits.

'The perfect bloody opportunity to reveal a very alive Harry to the world and dump that, er, Perkins in the midden, but no,' he groans. 'Is this the same lass who stole two snitches from under senior Seekers' noses in her first year on the squad? I think not.'

'You're comparing crups and kneazles again, Oliver,' Alicia retorts. 'It's not some teenage Quidditch player she'd be going against, but a junior minister with no moral compass.'

'But she's got that Hermione Granger on her side,' Oliver replies believing he has the upper hand. Hermione sits up proudly and primly and dusts non-existent motes of dust from her blouse and skirt.

'And what the bloody hell is she going to do, you prat?' Alicia growls. 'Read them to sleep? Berate them into confessing?' Hermione deflates visibly as Fred chuckles, amazed to see his sister-in-law knocked down a couple of pegs. Ron glares at his older brother, tempted to join in the snickering yet knowing the consequences of arousing Hermione's ire. Just able to stifle her own laughter, Angelina glances distractedly at the ceiling.

'Hold on, you two,' Lee says trying to regain some semblance of order. 'Let's get back to the story.' His co-commentators grudgingly consent, yet without capping the vitriol.

Noting the tension, Lee decides to treat the pair as hostile witnesses. 'So, Oliver, what do you think of Ginny's interpretation of how she discovered Harry?'

'I have to agree with Tonks,' he answers. 'It's just too simple an explanation.'

'Alicia?'

'Though I hate to admit it, I agree with Oliver,' she concurs.

Three faces immediately look at Hermione for an answer, but she's fascinated by a bird outside the window and refuses to acknowledge their sudden attention.

'And I disagree,' Lee asserts. As the three turn back to the wireless, a slight smirk emerges on Hermione's face. 'After all, when all other explanations are exhausted, generally the simplest and most easily overlooked answer is the correct one.'

'Should we get you a deer-stalker, Sherlock Jordan?' Alicia sweetly enquires.

'Maybe just a silly pipe for whatever he's been smoking,' offers Oliver. 'It's a Fidelius charm, Lee, performed by one of the pre-eminent witches of our age, and you think it could be obviated by a simple wizard's debt?'

'That's loony even for you, Lee,' Alicia adds.

'We'll see.'

**

* * *

**

Leave the World Unseen

**Haseltoun-under-Calton-Hill, Edinburgh**

---(Catesby's POV)---

_Where the buggering hell are they?_

I've been in this shit-hole of a town for half a day now, wandering through all of its narrow cobbled streets plagued by surly fairies and locals with incomprehensible accents, nostrils filling with the disgusting stench of selkies or bogmonsters of some ilk. What or who would live in this festering midden anyway? The locals probably keep Red Caps as pets. There's a welter of buildings in every sort of disrepair. Never catch Diagon Alley like this. Can't even enchant the ceiling to make a proper representation of the sky, stupid buggers.

I swear I'll kill that bitch when I find her, ministerial orders be damned. _Subdue if necessary,_ my arse. Don't know how she managed to incapacitate the other three, but I'll not give that cow the time to pull anything on me. My colleagues, the gits, are useless without their sodding wands except for creating diversions, which they can scarcely do in hospital. The sodding slag even bribed that bloody fairy at the Seelie Gate. I'm certain there was a Ministry circular against doing that except in extreme emergency. Just because she's a Weasley she thinks she can pull shite like that. Making me jog in a sodding anorak in midsummer from the arse end of Cockburn Street to Calton Hill to find another open gate. So what if it was in the afternoon? Still bloody hot enough. Even then the bastard ghillie dhu wouldn't let me in for less than a Sickle. Barely made it through the Brae Gate-to-Byre Lane entrance without getting spotted by some greasy git of an Auror hiding among the hawkers and gawpers. I'm definitely going to murder her, slowly.

Who is that daft sod with her? If Ministry regulations didn't specifically forbid it, I'd do him a serious injury just to watch that Weasley cow writhe. The death of a dangerous renegade operative who'd already incapacitated three officers could be dismissed as an unfortunate necessity. Perkins would likely skin me alive should a bystander or captive suffer a grievous injury or death, especially a Muggle. I can at least stun the git, so that's something.

I've circled round the Inner Grove Hill and wound my way outwards, retracing my steps to catch out any sodding Auror who might dare follow me. Still no sign. Even that prat Dudson's rats haven't been able to trace Weasley and her Muggle in here. Probably being feasted upon by the bloody Red Caps. The rats, that is. One can always hope, though.

When I find that woman, I'll make her pay for bringing me here...

**Glamis and Cawdor Wizarding Assurance, Haseltoun-under-Calton-Hill, Edinburgh**

---(Harry's POV)---

I'm falling.

Wind whips at me, buffeting my back. My eyes are open but all I see is black, bordered by a sickening green tinge flickering like a gas flame. Instead of roaring upward, the jets are guttering, occasional sparks collapsing, pooling at the bottom. A shrill shriek of laughter echoes in my ears. A trick of the air, or some twisted product of my imagination perhaps. But along with that evil cackling a woman's voice peals pleading for someone's life. I try to call out to her, to locate the voice, but my throat is ruined, made hoarse from my own screams.

The descent doesn't frighten me, though a distant warning – muffled by the howling wind, the screeching, the begging, and my own cries – tells me it should. Instead, I instinctively curl into a foetal position, rotating until the wind strikes me directly in the face. I must be facing the ground. A small round window of green, a far different shade than that vile flame retreating from the periphery of my sight, appears ahead and grows in size. The wind against my face begins to lessen as I try to relax myself for landing.

The ground comes to meet me, though, along with that hideous screeching. My leg is limp, stabbed by daggers. Blood is trickling down my right arm as well. Is this sorcery, dark Satanic rituals in – oh buggering hell, it can't be... – a cemetery? _No, Ginny's not like this._ First off, she's C of E. I think. Who are these people, then? A flicker of memory tells me these masked creatures are not _our_ sort of wizards and witches. A weedy goat-faced creature stands before the gathered assembly, extolling his crimes and, apparently, their failures. Some wretched simpering mass cools at his heels. When the reedy monstrosity turns to face me again, its visage is obviously more ophidian than caprine with red eyes avidly gleaming with depravity.

Yet now we are somewhere else, the grotesque man-thing and I, its sibilant voice biting my ears but failing to find purchase on my mind. An overwhelming sense of loss and regret fills me, dulling the force of his gaze. Crows – or are they men? – swarm towards me but I waft them away indifferently like wisps of smoke. I'm dead to the world now. My soul is buried in lime to prevent the plague I bear from leeching into the soil. _So many dead, some at my hands._ Having lost all that I've loved, I'm more dangerous than ever. Death would be a welcome release. Mr Snake-faced git seems to realise this. If I didn't know better, I'd say Tom was shivering. _Tom._ What a simple name for such a creature. Somewhere near I hear a woman sobbing. The weeping is painfully familiar, of someone distant but dear to me. I dearly wish to stop and accompany her in grief, yet onward I press. Honestly, I wish there could be another way. Cries of pain and dismay erupt around me. I continue forward.

Tom swings his arm in a great arc and shouts something that seems terribly funny to me now, until I see that sickening green light. The part of me that laughed a second ago presently quails. My past self, however, merely swerves away from the attack and flings back something of my own. Tom easily deflects my rejoinder, sending a minion flailing. We continue trading spells, hitting one another on occasion, never directly enough to seriously disable the other, although he strikes more frequently than me. He is slowing down, though. Eventually, we strike at the same moment forming an ever thickening silver thread of light between us. I remember this happening before... Somehow he manages the unexpected, however, and tosses down his wand in favour of another. A look of cruel triumph is etched across his face. But I'm quicker.

I wonder what he was thinking when the gold bolt struck him. What he thought afterward was well known to me. Wave after wave of anguish would have beaten him down only to be followed by shame and an overpowering sense of loss. He would suffer through every man, woman, and child murdered, tortured, and shattered by this conflict. The pain of death would be visited upon him time and again.

'Come, Tom, it can't hurt that much this time round,' I reproach while walking towards him with a renewed sense of purpose. A great many have died for this to happen; I mustn't let them down. Something heavy and firm is held in my left hand while my right points a wand at the snake-man Tom. His features are contorting into a demonic parody of grief. Perhaps I'm underestimating my skill, though. He's shaking, trying to ward off the spell I had cast upon him. 'All those people, murdered for your tawdry little schemes, all for nothing but a brief passage in some history book,' I press on sending another large bead along the strong, taut golden thread that links us. Battles are raging on all sides but apart the moan of the occasional wounded minion, Tom and I are alone. It is the cruellest fate that there are no others with whom I might share this moment. '_They_ will live on, Tom, through their loved ones.'

A horrible hollow laugh rings out. It takes a long time for me to realise it's coming from me, so mirthless, so full of sadness. 'Didn't Mummy love her Tommy?' More than life itself, I know. _He didn't know that, until now._ The grimace on his face is almost human, nearly tearful. It makes this horrible necessity ever more unpleasant.

He tries to break the bond between us. I'm too close now, only four feet and approaching quickly. 'What's it like to have a soul again, Tom?' I ask placing the sword-point directly under where his sternum would be, its point angled upward. Tom ceases his flailing to look down upon me with saddened little snake eyes. 'Yes, Tom, I'll help you along.' My cheeks are in immense pain from all of the laughter and the mocking smiles. There's no cheer in my heart, though. It's drowning in ice. 'We'll go together.'

The sword sinks into his chest with difficulty but true. I feel it entering my chest, too, yet with much greater ease. A stream of flame runs down the blade as it pricks the bottom of our hearts. My left arm is ablaze and my right is catching alight. The pain is unbearable but I'm unable to let go of either the sword or the wand. '_Memento mori_, Tom,' I remind him, forcing the blade deeper with all of my might, putting my body behind it. And in a blinding white flash it's all gone, but for the excruciating pain.

I'm in a pub full of teenagers with familiar faces...

---(Ginny's POV)---

'Can you think of a better explanation why I might be able to counter a Fidelius charm, Tonks?' I retort, groaning with exasperation. 'If so, I'd love to hear it.'

'It's too bloody simple,' she declares, and I have to admit my reasoning does seem somewhat facile. But my hypothesis seems correct nonetheless.

Before answering her, I consider all of the available information. First, there's the question of how I recognised Harry after I'd collided with him in front of the Leaky Cauldron two years back. The thing is, I didn't initially identify him as Harry. The voice was familiar and his face resembled that of someone I had known well but couldn't quite place, like that of an old acquaintance whose name one can't recall. My mind raced through all of the boys I'd met through school and training and could not place this person at all. Yet from deep within another voice shouted indistinctly but persistently something that could not have been true, something shocking enough to knock me on my arse even before he said his name and removed all doubt.

I remember Harry, _our_ Harry, telling me of his life with the Dursleys before Hogwarts, of how he would occasionally encounter odd-looking people on the street who would shake his hand or wave in greeting before vanishing without a trace. Was he the same to most of us now, an easily ignored figment of a delusional imagination or fairy tale? That everyone assumed he was dead certainly reinforced the charm, even for me initially. But once the dawning realisation broke through all those years of gloom and regret, once my misconceptions shrank and shrivelled under the purifying light of day (such as it was that day), I never wanted to return to the world I'd known. I was home.

I could have mauled him right then and there, but as he scarcely had any idea who I might have been I'm glad I waited until we were both properly pished. Before we left each other, tempted to become that scarlet woman Mum had warned my brothers about and threatened me never to be, I asked him whether he minded if I told a few people from our past that I'd met him. Though understandably reticent to meet my family immediately – possibly fearing that within the week I'd thrust him into the local registry office for a civil ceremony – he agreed to let me inform my brothers and their wives he was in London for the week. Yet even though I'd broken the enchantment at its weakest point, the fissure was incredibly small, admitting only me.

For instance, even though I'd wanted to tell Tonks that the reason I'd moved to Edinburgh was to be with Harry, Hermione's warning about telling others about him – probably prompted and reinforced by the Fidelius charm – overwhelmed any such desire. Instead, Harry became 'a man' and eventually 'my fiancé.' Tonks thought I was nervous about what Headquarters would think about an unmarried Auror living with a Muggle in _his_ flat. Prior to Shacklebolt's promotion to head of division, a 'maiden' Auror living with a man, wizard or otherwise, was enough to bring one before a disciplinary hearing. The war had scuppered that particular double standard for one against cohabitation with Muggles.

As a member of the Order, Kingsley is certainly no pureblood fanatic. He merely wants to protect innocent and defenceless Muggles from attacks on their Auror friends or lovers by the remaining Death Eaters and Muggle-baiters. After all, if Neville's parents had succumbed to such an assault, what would prevent our foes from doing the same to those without any magical ability? That and one must recall the importance of maintaining the secrecy of the wizarding community as well as the Aurors specifically. _Load of bollocks._ Yet there have been attacks...

And what about Harry? As Tonks reminded me, he is a special case. Is he at greater risk with me – former member of the storied DA, one of the few remaining Weasleys, and an Auror – or will I be able to protect him? Perhaps it would have been better for him if I'd been content with a drunken snogging session and the knowledge he was still among the living... Without a time-turner and divine intervention, that's not an option now. Even then, who knows what fresh disaster I would create? Besides, our Special Section fanclub reveals that Perkins suspects Harry's with me and the extent to which she will go to keep him hidden while providing another reason why Shacklebolt's against my engagement. _Into what sort of insane intrigue have I propelled us?_ It was all so much simpler when I was just a schoolgirl... My head falls into my hands and I dearly wish to hide away, for the first time unsure of what I'm doing.

'Well,' Tonks demands, 'explain yourself.'

I try to convince the pair of us with the reasoning behind my argument, and when that fails, with passion. Yet her face retains its bemused expression. There's some mercy left in her, though. 'Maybe Hermione could enlighten the three of us,' she concludes. I must have managed a smile through my shock as she grins back at me. 'Considering the mess you two've left behind,' Tonks continues, nodding towards the wall safe where the three wands requisitioned from the Special Section squad rest, 'and your reaction to the soporific,' now studiously examining her tea to avoid my gaze, 'we should leave soon.'

I glance at the clock on the back wall next to the stairway to her tiny bedchamber. On the dial, the sun rides high over Calton Hill and Arthur's Seat with a small tuft of smoke wafting from the grove on the former protrusion while in the foreground merchants hold court at their stalls to hawk their wares along the Royal Mile. It's mid-morning, over twelve hours since we left our flat and two days since we went to London to visit the family. It feels like an eternity.

'Though perhaps you could use another few hours of sleep,' she adds giving me a mirror image of my face. She _must_ be emphasising the bloodshot eyes. Else, I look bloody dreadful.

I have to change the subject. 'Any word on Catesby?' _Might as well make the wands a complete set._

'He came through Brae Gate,' Tonks answers. 'My man says he was right peeved that you closed Seelie Gate.' I fail to stifle a snicker. The boss glares me back into silence. 'If you weren't a Weasley, you'd be so deep in it you'd need a snorkel or a bubblehead charm to breathe.'

It's not the first time my family's fame has been flung in my face, though Tonks's reminder hurts me far more than all the others. Our portrait, most of which was posthumously done and the rest painted from photos, hangs in the Minister's office next to several of her family. (I'm told Susan and I give each other sympathetic looks from time to time.) We're covered extensively in all current books on modern magic, our names inextricably linked with Harry's. It doesn't hurt that one brother runs an internationally successful shop (Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, London, Hogsmeade, Cork, Paris, etc.) while the other's a star Quidditch player, even if he plays for the Cannons. Reason enough for Simmonds to have made sport of me... Still, her assessment seems harsh as I feel my ears burning in indignation.

'The fairy decides whether or not to accept the bribe, Tonks,' I mutter staring straight back at her. 'And _your_ reputation has saved you from a number of scrapes with the plod, if I remember correctly.' Unfortunately, she's shameless and simply smirks at the memories. 'With such a stunning role model, it's no bloody surprise I'm constantly being reprimanded.'

'Not my fault you don't take after Fred more,' she replies, raising an eyebrow. 'He was always able to avoid the law if not a teacher's reprimand.'

'Must be all those bad habits I learnt from you,' I retort, raising her an eyebrow and a smirk.

Outmatched, she waves me off to bed with a smile and a promise to wake me in a couple of hours or should Catesby approach. I trust Tonks with the preparations for our departure, but I suspect Perkins, or more likely her permanent secretary, is plotting something devious. Finding my kit, I remove my wand from its pocket and slip it under the pillow on the bed. Even as I slip off my jeans and slide next to Harry in the small bed, I'm certain no sleep awaits me. He's sleeping peacefully now, his breathing completely regular. The temptation to kiss him into wakefulness is strong, but he needs his rest if he's ever to recover, and stale vomit was never my favourite mouthwash. I settle for nuzzling next to him...

---(Tonks's POV)---

It's surprising how Ginny and her contemporaries adapted to their fame.

The Gryffindors, for the most part, ignored it insofar as they could. Harry's year in particular has avoided the limelight, despite having escaped with so few casualties. Seamus retreated with his injuries back to Ireland accompanied, to his mother's immense displeasure, by his English girlfriend (now wife), Lavender. They're authors, he in the purely literary vein while she scribbles for the society pages in between novels reminiscent of Jane Austen. He publishes under a pseudonym while she scrupulously avoids name-dropping, angering her editors no end. While Seamus arguably might have chosen a more physically active profession had he been able, the two are happy enough in Ireland. Certainly happier than they would have been in Britain with the likes of Rita Skeeter constantly hounding them.

Dean made out the worst of that year, though not due to his own failings. He did, however, choose an 'irresponsible profession' and 'furthered the impression among right-thinking witches and wizards to avoid all things Muggle,' according to _The Daily Prophet_. The curse of being an artist, I expect. The _Prophet_ embarked on a campaign that hounded Dean out of England, or at least the wizarding side. His friends, of course, stood by him. Lavender quit that rag to write for the _Quibbler_, re-established by Neville and Seamus. Seamus posted epistles that put Zola's _J'accuse_ to shame. Fred sent some _complimentary_ products to the _Prophet_'s editorial staff. Lee threw in the occasional jab during his Quidditch commentary, and Ron and Hermione threatened litigation. With goblin solicitors. Ginny, of course, went into the fray with subtlety. She convinced Minister Bones to purchase one of Dean's works – a feat in itself at the time – and had her invite the _Prophet_ over for the unveiling. Faced with the Minister extolling the virtues of her new protégé, the editors collapsed and retracted their earlier comments.

The Patils kept their heads down and hard at work. In much of the current 'histories' of the period, they've been unjustly relegated to the footnotes. They wouldn't have it any other way. Padma vanished to India for three years to further her studies in Arithmancy. Her sister delved into her Healer training and a very private but longstanding affair with Dean until the strain became too much for both of them. It always amazes me how the two of them kept her name out of the press. Parvati's beauty is obviously matched by her cleverness.

Neville rarely stayed in the same place long enough for the gutter press to find any dirt on him even if they ever could. If he wasn't studying at some foreign university he was on an expedition or raising funds for Hogwarts or charity. He of all the Gryffindors adapted the best to his newfound fame, using it when he needed, avoiding it when it became too much to bear. His itinerant life and high visibility, however, made Ginny uncomfortable, and along with their other problems it was for the best that they eventually separated.

The Weasleys had their own problems. Fred had it worst. He found it difficult to reconcile Harry's memory with the losses of his mother and George. Harry, the saviour of our world, the twins' first investor, their friend and Quidditch team-mate as well as the cause of Molly's death. Luckily, Remus and Angelina filled the absence of George's moderating influence. Remus didn't bother lecturing Fred about how badly Harry must have felt about Molly's death or about how George would have wanted him to succeed, he merely reminded the young man about his responsibilities as a businessman and supported him throughout the rough patches. Angelina kept the press away from him, and Ginny, taking the brunt of their intrusions with remarkable character. Like a Quidditch manager, really. A bit of bullying here, some sweet words there, all spoken with a sparkling wit. When Fred finally felt comfortable enough to engage the public, he assumed his old carefree façade but avoided the centre stage where possible.

Hermione was another who was thrust into the spotlight. She and Ron, like Dean, were able to opt out of the wizarding world when it became too much. She still had enough on Rita Skeeter to secure some favourable press for herself and her friends. Her ties with the Minister similarly had some success in quashing hostile stories from those implying a biblical conspiracy between Ron and her to rid themselves of Harry to those suggesting she received preferential treatment in her coursework and practical training. Though she had experience with negative press, some days Ron and Ginny's support was all that kept her sane.

And what of Ron, Angelina, and Lee? They had Quidditch. It seems simplistic, but for Ron and Ange the support of their teams and for Lee of the WWN as well as of their fans enabled them to overcome most of the bad press that arose. That wealth of goodwill allowed them to bolster and protect their loved ones. Even Ron and Hermione's brief separation was overlooked by the gossip pages, mostly thanks to Lavender and a few well placed threats from a certain novelties manufacturer.

Then there's Ginny. I've no idea what to make of that girl. Her last year at Hogwarts nearly did her in until Fred and Angelina got her sorted. Ron and Hermione kept the press at bay with threats of solicitors as well as securing the occasional private word from Minister Bones herself. She escaped most of the press once she left school, though. Even as the most marriageable witch of her generation, with an ancient name yet one with equally politically sound credentials in our new 'enlightened' era, she kept herself well hidden from intrigues of the likes of Skeeter. Only that bloody beetle had a chance of ruining Ginny's quiet life, but Rita was wise enough to know the consequences of crossing the young woman. The youngest Weasley concentrated on her career and let much of the rest of her life fall away to nothingness, until Dean. He was the ideal first lover, desirous of privacy himself and being a friend of old in any case. He at least made her feel happy again. Neville was perfect for her, insofar as I and the rest of us knew. But it wasn't to be. I'll let Simmonds pass as a case of diminished responsibility brought on by drink, or something. And then, it seems, there was Harry.

From soap opera to happy families in one mad step. Ginny was happy with Dean and Neville, but she was unsufferable with her new lover. Honestly, I couldn't understand because he didn't sound too much different than the other two, maybe a little more attentive as neither Harry nor Ginny were being hounded by the press, but as a Muggle he was not nearly as interesting. Then, I grew up half-and-half, whereas Arthur Weasley had inculcated her with a fascination of all things Muggle. And as it was Harry as well, well... How I envy her, but with her life she bloody deserves some good fortune.

---(Ginny's POV)---

I hear them come into the room before I see them. Someone, I suspect Hermione, has thoughtfully replaced the rough linen hospital gown with my cotton nightdress from home, although the sheets are still unpleasantly rough. As much as my friend wants me to rest, St Mungo's wants to free a bed for someone with either more serious injuries or money. It's hard to tell the difference in these straitened times.

It takes all my strength to rise onto my elbows from the hospital bed, but I wave off all assistance. Ron and Hermione, hand in hand, are in the lead with Fred and Angelina following closely behind. My younger brother appears completely disorientated and needs Hermione to guide him to a bedside chair. Her eyes are raw and, despite the brave front she's almost able to portray, her nerves are absolutely shattered. My other presumptive sister-in-law makes a show of holding up Fred, but the reverse is true. Angelina has the look of one who senses impending disaster. Fred seems to have walked into a lecture by Professor Binns.

Then I see the black armbands, visible on their black robes only by their interlaced red and gold piping. There's no need to ask for whom those are. Harry's dead.

'Who were his bearers?' I demand, already aware what I feared was correct.

Ron's courage finally fails him as he sits on the edge of the bed staring fixedly at his hands. Fred looks pointedly bored, making no effort to evade my gaze. Angelina, however, is distinctly uncomfortable, peering nervously between us four others. Eventually Hermione acknowledges her glowering at the two brothers failed and answers.

'Well, Ron and Neville, of course,' she says, 'as well as Kingsley and Ernie.' My jaw sets as I glare at Fred, but Hermione continues nonetheless. 'Seamus went back to Ireland with Dean and Lavender.'

My elder brother doesn't avoid my piercing stare. 'What about the twins?' I demand.

'There's only one of us now, love,' Fred states flatly. _I can't believe I'd forgotten._ The twins were inseparable, immortal. How many times had they nearly killed themselves with their experiments? I couldn't imagine a world without the both of them, never would want to think on such a world. My guides, my twisted tormentor-protectors. Now there is only one to keep me on course, alive, too much work for one man half-dead himself. My mouth quavers but I try to retain my composure. I finally manage a strained, squeaking, 'Well?'

'I buried our brothers, our parents,' he bluntly replies. 'I've done _more_ than my bit, thanks.' There's no effort to hide any of the bitterness in his voice. The savagery of the tone is not directed at me, but at the recently entombed.

Both Angelina and Hermione scowl at him, Ange going so far as to give Fred a shove. Yet he's resolute.

Though Ron still can't look me in the eye, he tries to play the conciliator and grasps my hand on the sheets. 'Ginny, give him time.' Whatever my younger brother intended, Fred is fit to burst with rage. The remaining twin's jaw tenses, his eyes twitching furiously. Brusquely, he storms from the room ignoring Ange's efforts to calm him, yet saving us from hearing his true feelings.

Vying for a return to normalcy, Hermione pretends nothing has happened and continues her report. As she blethers on about Remus still being bedridden, I try to follow Fred out of the room...

I am thrust out of bed, not by my dream but my resurrected lover. Fighting his way awake, Harry flings the sheets away as he bolts upright, unintentionally rolling me onto the cot beside the bed, my back cracking on one of the supports. Tousle-haired Lazarus himself succeeds in striking his head against one of the crossbeams above the tiny sleeping alcove.

'Ow!' we protest in unison. As I rub my sore lower back, he slumps back onto the bed clutching his forehead. His eyes are unfocused when he turns to look at me, only now noting someone else is sharing the room. He appears shaken, if not broken.

'Where am I?' He asks in a panicked voice as if he doesn't know me, or at least isn't certain who I am. _Dear God, he's regressing..._

I move carefully towards him so as to not frighten him, still clasping my back in pain. 'We're in Haseltoun, Harry, in Edinburgh.' A hand cautiously emerges from the bed, cupping my cheek.

'Ginny.' He speaks my name to prove that I exist, that I'm here. And as the certainty gains hold a wan smile emerges. 'What are you doing down there?'

'You tossed me out of bed.' Although speaking playfully, I am suitably offended and dismayed.

His smile deepens as he peers into my eyes. 'Why would I do a foolish thing like that?' _He's hiding something..._

'I don't know,' I reply, 'but it better not happen again.'

'Only if the bed's on fire, love,' he answers. The smile that follows is positively enchanting, the cheeky bugger.

Before I have the chance to ask him about his dreams, Tonks barrels into the room, wand at the ready, prepared for the worst. She sees our domestic scene, me in my t-shirt and knickers, one hand on my back, Harry reclining, his hand on my cheek. He looks scared, but tenses for action.

'Hi, Tonks,' I mutter without turning, 'so glad you could join us.' My other hand, however, had slipped under the pillow on the bed for my wand just in case I was wrong.

---(Harry's POV)---

Tonks, now with brown hair but the same heart-shaped face, exhales noisily with relief and annoyance. Ginny's hand slips from under the pillow back into her lap with her wand. 'The pair of you will send me to an early grave,' our intruder chunters as she leaves the room.

Ginny's still rubbing her lower back. My head hurts a little, but I seem to have halted my forward progress before giving myself a concussion. Or another one. 'So what are you still doing down there?' I ask as sweetly as possible.

Her brow furrows and her nose wrinkles. 'Your breath could murder a troll, Harry,' she avers. There _is_ a distinctly repulsive taste in my mouth and my throat feels raw.

'What happened to me?' I wonder aloud.

'We don't know,' she replies. 'You were holding you head as if you were suffering a migraine then started vomiting.' She clinically examines my eyes, I assume to assess my condition. When I ask whether it's a concussion, she answers with a grimace of uncertainty.

'I thought you were supposed to be a Healer,' I grumble with mock annoyance.

'Oh, I know a few things that would put you right,' she answers. She points her wand at my mouth muttering _bucca mentha_ and that wretched taste in my mouth vanishes. The wand slides back under the pillow as she squirms into bed beside me, a sly grin emerging.

But a voice calls from below. 'Oi! Get dressed, you two,' Tonks shouts. 'No time for mucking about.'

'That bloody mirror,' Ginny mutters, hiding her head in the pillow.

On a small table next to the bed, I see a small hand mirror. The chillingly familiar feeling of being watched creeps over me, followed by a terrifyingly haunting regret. I stare at the silvered glass hoping it will shatter or at least disappear, but it stubbornly stays in one piece. Ginny sees the look on my face and immediately apologises for the mirror, explaining she simply wanted to monitor my condition. She knows there's something else behind my eisoptrophobia, but I'm happy enough to leave such revelations for another time, kissing her for forgiveness. With a fresh yelled reprimand, Tonks ensures we go no further.

With a groan, Ginny rises to get dressed. I attempt to follow her example and am immediately struck by a wave of nausea and a pair of uncooperative legs, sending me to the floor. She rushes over pulling me close to her while I fight the overwhelming urge to boak. When I think on it, I was much happier being ignorant.

**Intermission: The Winter of our Discontent (Dean's POV)**

Staring out the pub's windows fogged by warm bodies within and wintry weather outwith, my eyes peered through the makeshift scrying glass. I saw not the future but the past, its images refined by the work of a myriad of artisans, each with their own interpretations and idiosyncratic habits. Characters hewn not in stone nor cast in bronze or some other base metal like gold, but something infinitely more tangible albeit ephemeral: by aspirations, ambitions, and animosities.

It was almost Christmas. Neville was meeting me with some grand news before I headed back to Paris. I assumed he and Ginny were getting engaged. Though I was happy with Sandrine, I couldn't help but be envious of him, and of Parvati and her Garry. Mostly of Neville. I couldn't imagine why Harry never noticed her even with the lame excuse she was Ron's sister. His loss, the poor bastard.

Neville arrived five minutes late bearing a strained 'It's for the best!' smile in a vain effort to hide the wailing lamentation burgeoning within. 'I'm so sorry, Neville,' I told him sincerely, guiding him to a table before grabbing him a pint. I'd been there two times too many myself. He assured me it was a mutual decision, but knowing that doesn't dull the pain much. Commiseration and a few pints, however...

He was oddly philosophical about it all, at least until I realise why. Ginny and he had been alike in one too many ways, and neither had truly forgotten the losses that thrust the two together. Unfortunately, they differed on how they dealt with their grief. He had sought out the liberty and opportunities that hard won fame brought him, using it to aid orphans and survivors of the war, to promote the rebuilding of Hogwarts, and to further the wizarding community's understanding of Muggles. She desired order and seclusion, which she found as an Auror and separated her from us, the _enfant terrible_ of the wizarding art world and the daring young adventurer-herbologist.

By the time we left the pub, we'd managed to forget our own names and the date. We were far too gone even to consider apparating home never mind attempting it in the heart of Muggle London. But we remembered all too well what brought us together on this cold, wet night.

'Do you believe it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?' I slurred, stumbling before righting myself against a wall.

Neville's so quiet, resting against a car, entirely inured to its shrieking alarm, I thought he was about to be sick. Instead, he looked at me, strangely sober for a second, and said, 'Ask me in three months.' Only then did his stomach rebel into the gutter...

We parted company on a promise to meet again in March, but in a café next time.

On that very day, Ginny met someone important enough to forego the annual Gryffindor New Year's piss-up, much to Hermione's delight (and Ron's dismay). In February, on Valentine's Day, generally the bane of singletons everywhere, Katie seduced Neville. Or was it the other way round? A week later, I ran into Susan at a gallery opening in Florence.

I swear he must have been channelling Trelawney, fraud though she generally was, from beyond the veil. I still don't think he answered my question, though...

* * *

Ophidian: _of or pertaining to snakes._

Caprine: _of or pertaining to goats._

Eisoptrophobia: _a fear of mirrors._


	16. Circles and Roundabouts in Crepuscular T...

**There and Back Again Lane**

Ch. 16 – Circles and Roundabouts in Crepuscular Towns, Part 2: Plots Have I Laid…

**Brief Non-Canon Character List (Not all of whom will be appearing in this chapter)**

Babbage, Nicholas: _Permanent Undersecretary of State for Magical Law Enforcement_

Catesby, Thomas: _Officer, Magical Law Enforcement Squad (MLES) Special Section_

Clarke, Elspeth:_ Mistress of the Rolls, Keeper of the Archival Quills and Seals_

Dudson: _Controller of rat-agents for the Department for Magical Law Enforcement (DMLE)_

Perkins, Lucretia: _Minister of State (i.e., junior minister) for Magical Law Enforcement_

**

* * *

**

Interlude: May you live in interesting times

There was an old Muggle poet with the wretchedly _common_ name of Milton who wrote that it was 'better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven.' Admittedly, Lucifer reputedly says those words – villains always have the best lines – but Milton, the swine, never ventured to Borneo. Acromantulas, no _proper_ people about (you know, witches and wizards of good breeding) only half-naked tribespeople, infernal temperatures, and one hundred-percent humidity. Yes, one hundred-percent. Can't even perspire properly here, if I ever did such a thing. Then, of course, there are the rains, the snakes, and the devil knows what else. For this I supported my idiot father? What I wouldn't give to be back in Wiltshire lounging in my silk pyjamas, toying with the affections of some simpering half-wit.

So I have evaded justice. Justice? What a farce. 'You had defected near the end,' you say, 'so why did you leave?' Yes, I had seen which way the tide was flowing, noticed my father obliviously drowning in the undertow, and swam back to shore while I still could. I switched to the side of the bland, er, good. However, Perkins, that, well, _Hufflepuff_, had to prove she was capable of protecting our world from _my_ sort, whether we'd turned or not. Having received an anonymous eleventh-hour warning, I left my beloved England for the Continent hoping to meet with an acquaintance or two from Durmstrang. But the bastards shunned me, cast me, _me_, out as a traitor to the proper order. I've been hiding ever since, always in ever worse circumstances. I've not seen a proper Quidditch match in four years.

Hell and buggery, even that ineffectual prat Snape received a State funeral. Admittedly, it had to wait until after the War, but still.

Personally, I feel this life – if I can call it that – is punishment enough for all I had done before. The only consolation I have is that Potter is dead along with most of those wastrels the Weasleys. It's about the only thing that lets me sleep at night.

—Draco Malfoy, Sarawak, 12 May 2003

**

* * *

**

Havering on a Hart

**Glamis and Cawdor Wizarding Assurance, Haseltoun-under-Calton-Hill, Edinburgh**

---(Ginny's POV)---

Before me my lover is supine on the wooden floor, struggling to rise. Scrambling to Harry's side, I pull him from under the cot he had overturned when trying to extricate himself from the bed. Fear fervently worries my throat as I hold him to me. His eyes are glazed, his face turning a dangerous shade of pale green, and his limbs seem limp. He feels cool and moist to the touch, shuddering slightly as I hug him tighter to my chest. Of all the times to suffer a relapse... Some strength returns to his arms as he clutches me like a terrified infant. Pressing his forehead against my shoulder, he begins to huff and attempts to force himself away. He tries to quell the impulse to vomit. Instead, I tighten my embrace. By the time Tonks rushes into the room again, the shivers have lessened, his breathing has become regular, and his face has reverted to a healthier shade of pink, though still too pale for my liking.

'I don't know whether he'll be able to travel,' I admit, unable to hide a note of panic. Harry notices the hitch in my voice and tenses. Perhaps he's afraid of being left alone with my peculiar boss or maybe of losing his last link with the world he knew. I don't know. Am I doing what's best for him by putting him through all this misery? Perhaps, as everyone seems to insist, this entire relationship is all about some lingering adolescent obsession. If that's the case, why am I possibly throwing my career away or thinking about simply getting Obliviated myself so Harry and I could live in blissful ignorance as Muggles? I don't care if he never remembers the past anymore. Indeed, a large part of me hopes he never does so he can avoid all of the misery of his real life and remain secure and happy in his mundane fantasy world. A little late for all that, though...

Harry's condition is far outside my ken. I should've sent his symptoms to Hermione earlier but that damn sedative Tonks gave me prevented that. My dear sister-in-law isn't connected to the Aurors' secure cauldron network in any case, making this one of the few times I'm _not_ glad we're not in the same department. Perkins likely has the Floo network under surveillance, so that's out. Owls can't get through the bloody dome until the evening except on official business. I doubt that Catesby hasn't informed the owlmaster about my rogue status by now. Had Ron and I not been so eager to berate one another, I could have relayed Harry's condition through him.

Knowing Hermione, it's probably for the best she doesn't know how Harry's doing. I've no desire to risk her pregnancy. She might advocate caution to others, but she has the remarkable and otherwise enviable trait of forgetting that when those she loves are in the lurch. Travel by portkey or Floo are risky enough. Mercifully, my berk of a brother's visit – probably courtesy of Shacklebolt seeking to dissuade me from further adventures – expended this safehouse's weekly quota for non-emergency portkey usage. Even if she could Apparate into the Hill, I'd seriously argue against it with Catesby still about. Who knows of what that cretin's capable. We have to go somewhere she could travel to safely. Hogsmeade? Perhaps some good came out of my purported allergy to Tonks's tea additive after all.

Harry turns and struggles unsuccessfully to sit upright. _Now I know what Mum felt like when Fred and George were two._ 'J-just n-need s-some h-help w-walking,' he mumbles weakly. Thankfully, it's only his co-ordination that's regressing rather than his mind.

'Like a pair of bloody legs,' she snorts as she performs her own perfunctory examination. Even in his rather floppy state, the contemptuous grimace with which he regards Tonks as she grasps his chin to scrutinise his eyes dismays her until he follows it with a churlish grin. Obviously I was wrong about the lack of mental regression.

'Is th-this a c-common s-side-effect of me-memory alteration?' he asks, returning to a measure of maturity. He tries to twist around again to face me, but needs my help. His head slumps onto my shoulder, his eyes firmly shut. A hint of resignation in my superior's expression makes me hold him tighter, until he begins to cough. _I can't leave him here._ She looks at me, her mouth twisted in concern and uncertainty. It will be terribly dangerous moving him from the shop to one of the gates, but we can't risk an emergency portkey. Using one of those would immediately alert Perkins to our location and would precipitate Shacklebolt's overt involvement in our little palace coup at far too early a stage. Can't anything be simple?

'I don't know, Harry,' I eventually admit. 'I've never really seen anyone in the first stages of recovery before.' _At least Lockhart has moved on from joined-up writing…_

'I'm brimming with confidence,' he grumbles into my hair just loud enough for all to hear, his chin resting on my collarbone, his breath scratching my ear. He refuses to let go of me, though. Mind, I'm the only thing keeping him somewhat upright at the present moment.

Tonks stands, looking ready to give him a sharp kick to the shins that I return in equal measure. 'Now that you're back to your old self, Harry,' she announces motioning me to follow her, 'the adults have to discuss how to get you out of here.' Shaking her head, she leaves the room.

With the exception of his almost silent breathing, he doesn't make a sound. _The bastard's fallen asleep again._ Dragging him to the bed and edging the fallen cot further away with my foot, I gingerly lay him onto the sheets and grudgingly slip from the room, following my mistress.

---(Harry's POV)---

Ginny steals silently from the room following her strange colleague, leaving the door open a small crack. The small mirror rests on the wooden nightstand at the head of the bed, peering straight at me. A Stooges song comes immediately to mind. I can't look at it for long with the strobing lights blinding me. A bit like bad club lighting, and just as painful. Some mediaeval torturer is trying pluck my eyes out of their sockets from behind with some success. I try to open my eyes, but even the thought of looking at something encourages my seditious stomach. By touch, I twist the silvered eye around so it faces the door. _Please don't let them notice just yet._ I need time to think about those dreams even as most of the images begin to fade.

Unfortunately, the harder I try to bring those visions into sharper focus, the worse my headache becomes. The searing agony behind my eyes makes it impossible for me to think. One name, connected to that demonic serpent-faced creature, remains. _Tom._ What is he, and who were the others in the black robes and masks? A visceral revulsion matches that of my rebellious stomach, the one aggravating the other. Flashes from the retreating memories send me into a swift downward spiral. Whoever those men in black were, they weren't _us._ More like the National Front or something. All this thinking is bloody murder...

Murder. Tom. I killed him, with a bloody great sword. Am I sodding St George or a common assassin? _Feels_ more like the latter. Feelings are all I have to go on with my mental faculties in complete disarray. I just want to hide. All that blood, that screaming... Shrieking, tearing at my ears... And I may have killed others. My stomach foments a mutiny, partly in reaction to the pain, mostly from the memories. I crawl over to the window on my forearms like a seal, managing to open it just in time. _Gardyloo..._ I hope no one was walking past on the pavement below.

What started as a ploy to drive Tonks from the room has become reality. I'd hoped the headache was waning, that I would have some time to talk with Ginny about my dreams, but it's returned with a vengeance. Without the strength to stop the retreating memories or even to stay awake, I withdraw to the bed seeking some release. Making no effort to stem the tide of images and emotions washing over me, I hope a coherent pattern will emerge. And that I don't boak again. Eventually, I succumb to fatigue...

Another bloody buggering corridor.

In the flickering torchlight, crowds of young people dressed in black robes like monks and nuns come into view. Students.

Before me, an odd group calls attention to itself. A boy with hair so blond I first thought he was an albino has cornered a girl against the wall aided by a pair of monstrous gits. Her friends trying to force the three pricks back with screams and ineffectual shoves. A shock of red hair emerges from in front of the tormentors. _It's Ginny._ My hands clench into fists automatically as I surge towards them. A calming hand, however, stops me. I look to its origin to see an odd young woman with dirty blond hair and protuberant eyes. She needs only a raised eyebrow to stop me, to tell me to wait. In the end, I'm glad I did. The blond boy immediately stumbles backwards, clutching his profusely bleeding nose. His two friends gaze on in gormless astonishment. Ginny's friends exchange looks of joyous surprise and amusement while she holds a hand to her forehead. Noticing the blond girl has released me, I rush towards the red-haired victor, but she simply brushes past me without a word. Calling her name, I catch up to her and grasp her arm, to stop her for an instant...

---(Ginny's POV)---

Tonks is leaning against the desk nearest the door to the shop wearing a frown of irritation. A fresh cuppa in a repulsively cheery mug with sunflowers on it is ready for me on the table. Answering the grimace on my face caused by the offensive mug, she quickly declares, 'It's Hornby's, I swear.' _It must be a gift from Frank's wife, then._ Olive's a dreadfully jealous woman and this is her way of ensuring no other witch would even consider the poor man. Any road, I've put my boss on the defensive.

Sitting on an old straight-backed wooden chair, I try to make myself feel at ease. The brew receives a quizzical sniffing scrutiny before I finally sip. _Why can't she brew a proper pot?_ Now I never know whether I'll be poisoned or merely disgusted.

'I much prefer the earlier Harry,' she declares huffily. 'He was much more easygoing, less of an arse.'

'If we do this right you might just get _him_ back,' I hiss back. 'Besides, you weren't around for all the tantrums and the surliness.'

'Perhaps, but I'm not there for the sex now either, thank God,' she retorts with a shudder, a spark of devilry in her eye.

Exaggerating a grimace at another swallow of her dreadful brew, I fire back. 'Or maybe you simply have fond memories of pubescent angst.' Cue angelic eye flutters and grin.

'Ah, yes, now it's all coming back,' she says, looking joyously upward entranced by purportedly fond memories. 'The screaming, the broken trinkets, the verbal abuse,' she continues gleefully.

'And that was with people he liked,' I reply.

'Yes, but that Harry had You-Know-Who trying to murder him, society pressing him to save us all, and a near perpetual headache,' she answers. 'What's this prat's excuse?'

A bitter anger rises in me, but I stem it before I say something too cruel. Instead, I keep my answer simple. '_That_ Harry had friends who supported and loved him and, insofar as possible, he had grown accustomed to pain.' _OK, so there was a little barb there..._ 'How else could he have survived all the miseries of his teenage years without those experiences, good and ill?' Tonks's expression is devoid of emotion. I might as well try to convince the table.

'For whatever reason,' she mutters, 'at least you can bear him.' A smirk flits across her visage as it takes on a kinder appearance. She circles the table to embrace me. Though I wish to return the gesture, my arms hang limply at my sides. My head droops onto her arm, however, while a sigh escapes me. 'We'll get him out of here, don't worry,' she swears, stroking my hair gently, reminding me of Mum. A breath catches in my throat as a chill passes through me. 'No more of that now, OK?' Somehow, I manage a nervous nod.

Having dispensed with the recriminations and forgiveness portion of our discussion, we investigate how best to remove the three of us from this place. Tonks's operatives report that Catesby's come no closer to rooting us out despite having passed the shop twice. _What an imbecile._ At present, the berk is ranging along the owleries and rookeries of Wyvern Lane at the south end of Haseltoun. Good to see old views of my family's reputation have survived. I shouldn't be so harsh to that part of town, though. Until the last war, it had been one of the finer streets in Haseltoun. Still, with luck Tonks's people will keep Catesby distracted long enough to sneak through Thane Gate in the north, if it's still open.

We will likely encounter several obstacles. Catesby's probably convinced Perkins to set wards over all of the gates, maybe even bolstering those bloody hexes with a retinue of Millies. After so many years of paying rapt attention to Bill's tales of his work as a curse-breaker – one of the side benefits being the Bat-Bogey Hex – the possibility of wards doesn't worry me in the least. A run-in with other members of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad won't be so straightforward.

First, the Aurors have a good working relationship with the local plod. Several of our lot fought and died alongside theirs in the last war and the two forces have maintained amicable dealings ever since. There's the slight chance we can get some of them to turn a blind eye – after all, Perkins isn't very popular in Haseltoun, especially as the local commander knew the junior minister at Hogwarts – but that might lead to a 'cleansing' of the barracks, with all the lot sympathetic to us being sent on to duties in the Falklands or South Georgia Island. With that strong disincentive, Tonks and I could only expect a bitter fight should we run contrary to the Millies. I'm not all that keen on getting Tonks involved in the first place, but if we become outlaws she'll be cast adrift, losing all she's fought hard for all these years. Admittedly, she's familiar with Muggle society, yet leaving the wizarding world would kill her. Hopefully, Shacklebolt will be able to protect her should something go wrong...

If something _does_ go horribly amiss, the plod will attempt to subdue the three of us – Tonks, Harry, and me – with equal measure of force. Not that I would blame them, to be fair. The odds would like be overwhelmingly against us, leaving no doubt in my mind Harry would get injured and possibly quite seriously. Yet I don't see how we might avoid that potentiality, except through luck. Unless...

When I inform my mistress of the plan, her hair unintentionally changes to a bright cherry red and her pupils drown in midnight irises, both regrettably perfect matches for the look of shock brought by my foolish idea. Then a fiendishly broad smile forms.

'Now why didn't I think of that?'

I've no idea how I managed to forget Professor Flitwick up until this point, but everything seems so clear now, so simple.

The Headmaster _is_ connected to the secure cauldron network. Owing to Professor Flitwick's vital role in the postwar reconstruction efforts, Shacklebolt insisted that he had an infallible line of communications with Hogwarts. That the Professor was a member of the Order was conveniently left unspoken. With Minister Bones in complete agreement, Junior Minister Perkins reluctantly accepted the request. Worse yet for Perkins and Babbage, ever since the War, the Headmaster hasn't been his old carefree self. The Professor insisted that the cauldron connection only be with the Aurors' network. He frequently casts charms over the cauldron to ensure no one has tampered with the line, as well... Rather paranoid, really, though he remains good-natured as long as you approach him from the front. After all he endured in those last two years, it's no surprise he's still nervous. At least he doesn't stutter incessantly like Quirrell had.

It's hard to suppress a shudder at the memory of Ron's letters from his first year. They made me dread Defence against the Dark Arts, a feeling that only got worse with my first year. If there was anyone to give a student reservations about asking a professor for help, it was Lockhart.

_You're concerned about being constantly tired and waking up with a strange red substance, possibly blood, all over your nightdress and bedclothes? Well, look at the time. Must dash._

About as useful as waving a white flag to ward off a manticore. And there I was, a prime example of possession by a Dark object, and the prat couldn't see it. Not that anyone else did, either... Sodding bastards. If it wasn't for Remus, I'd probably be playing Quidditch. I'd have more money but probably no Harry. A time like this makes me wonder whether I made the right choice, though. Anyway...

Professor Flitwick. Right. He'll probably go along with our scheme. It's well-known that his love of Perkins matches that he had for Umbridge. He may not declare such opinions in the _Daily Prophet_, but the mere mention of either of those hags' names sends him into an apoplectic fit as he battles to contain a string of vituperative abuses and giggles, the one leading inevitably to the other. There is another even better reason why the Professor might accept our plan.

Thanks to an indiscreet comment by Hermione, I know he knows Harry's alive. Tonks gives me another scathing glare. 'I was sworn to secrecy,' I plead to no positive effect – an eye-roll and an aggrieved sigh, to be precise – before continuing. Surely Professor Flitwick would support an effort to bring Harry back into the fold, especially now that the Memory charms are weakening. After all, the Headmaster always said that Harry's mum was his favourite student, along with Hermione, of course, and the professor has a similar fondness for Harry, though the young man never put forth the proper effort in class. Indeed, the good professor controls the weekly disbursement of Harry's parents' legacy as well as its deposit into Harry's Muggle bank account. That's the key to our scheme.

If the operation of the Aurors' special fund for informants is any indication, the money is transferred by goblin courier from Harry's Diagon Alley account using a special portkey. Needless to say, any other portkey cannot be used to go to or from a Gringotts branch. Even house-elves and other magical creatures can't disapparate from a Gringotts branch, which likely irked a few relatives of those Death Eaters who had been captured or had perished during the War, as well as the house-elves. If we can convince the Headmaster to use his connections in goblin society to convince the local Gringotts branch to let us travel with a courier to the Diagon Alley branch, we could avoid the MLES patrols at the gates and save Hermione the bother of travelling. The goblins might resent Professor Flitwick for what he is, but what he represents and what he did for them both during and after the War far outweighs their prejudice.

Still, the goblins – and Gringotts specifically – might scupper the plan on principle. After all, any plot that has wizards and witches fooling about with Gringotts portkeys is bound to engender animosity. Then again, the Goblin Minister would dearly love to embarrass Perkins as well. If only Bill had survived, this plan would be so much easier.

Tonks notices my eyes mist over as the memories and regrets flow forth once more and dotingly plays big sister. 'Bill, right?' she says as she wraps her arm about me, handing me a clean handkerchief. It's miserable to be so transparent. And so dependent. Despite how long I fought to gain my own space away from the looming shadows of my over-protective family, I feel the loss of their sheltering embraces and words more and more each day. Only my two remaining brothers, my two new sisters (Hermione and Angelina), and Harry have kept me from dissolving with the rains or killing myself with overwork. Tonks and Remus aren't so bad, either.

A giggle – I can't believe I still giggle at my age – announces that I've returned to the present. Sensing that I'm strong enough to cope with criticism, my boss addresses the enormous flaw in the scheme. The Millies' barracks are but a short stretch of road from the Gringotts branch and have a clear view of the bank's front entrance. As one might expect, Gringotts has no side or back entrances. With any luck, the larger gate and day patrols will empty the barracks. Of course, counting on luck for a plan to succeed is an invitation to disaster. At the moment, though...

'Seeing as we have the unimportant matter of your imminent escape from justice settled,' Tonks starts, a grin stretched across her face as she pulls me from a bout of introspection, 'where's the ring?' I pull a gold chain from under my Hearts jersey – don't ask; I know it's very kitschy for a witch in Edinburgh with an amorous disposition – revealing my engagement ring. She utters the expected response, 'It's a bit, er, _modest_.'

When Harry had presented the ring to me, I'd honestly imagined larger or more diamonds myself. Neither Hermione nor Angelina was impressed, arguing that even an Obliviated Harry couldn't be that miserly. Our Muggle friends weren't nearly so harsh. Indeed, a number of them were surprised he was frugal enough to save for that simple band on the weekly allowance from his parents' legacy and his job at the university. I couldn't bear telling them how many guineas that allowance was and wondering why he sought that job. Then last week he showed me the nice house (and the attached mortgage) he'd found for us with the money he'd invested from that allowance. It's no mansion, but it's more comfortable than estate agent 'cosy.' Regrettably, I've no piccies of the place, and I doubt she'll take my word for it.

'I hear that you've put in a change of residence form, though,' she enquires with a raised eyebrow. 'You lucky git, you.' Is there anything I do that no one knows about?

'Sleeping beauty's awake,' Tonks notes, drawing me back from another reverie. She points to the hand mirror, noting it's directed towards the door. Fearing the worst, I scramble from the table and up the stairs nearly bowling her over in my haste. 'You're welcome!'

---(Harry's POV)---

…And she thumps me on the conk before storming off. Down I go…

I feel someone grasp my hand and pull me upright. When I open my eyes I see an older Ginny before me, her face etched with worry. _And no club lighting._

'You thumped me.' I really must learn not to say the first thing that comes to mind.

'No, I didn't!' she retorts. Even without my glasses I see her face contorted in denial of the accusation, before pushing me back onto the bed. _I am ever so grateful this mattress is comfortable._

'In my dream, Ginny,' I counter before she decides to have another go at my nose, 'after you headbutted some blond git.'

From outraged to chortling in three seconds. 'I don't see what's so funny,' I teasingly protest. 'Me, flat on my arse, nose askew thanks to the school's female featherweight boxing champion,' I declare, crossing my arms with a grumble.

In between giggles and guffaws, she manages, 'You had to have been there.'

'So who was he?' rising back onto my elbows, avoiding the implied dig on my absent memory.

'Draco Malfoy,' she says with a sneer.

'God, what a name,' I declare. 'With a name like that, how couldn't he be a prat?'

'I never thought of it that way,' she answers as if my suggestion merits consideration.

'Might as well've named him 'Hellion' and had done with it,' I mutter grabbing my spectacles.

'I think his parents were saving _that_ name for a daughter,' she replies with a smirk.

There's something else, something she's not telling me. 'Did you two just, er, break up?' _Apparently not._ Her face goes from amused to disgusted even faster. Oh dear…

'Don't ever…' she snarls, her face inches from mine.

'I can't remember, remember?' I growl in retort, raising my head until our noses touch.

Her response is not the one I expect. I'd prepared myself for a slap, a punch, or a kiss, in that order. Instead, she scuttles backwards against the wall at the foot of the sleeping alcove muttering a garbled apology, peering at me in shock as her hands clasp over her mouth.

I drag myself towards her (bloody uncooperative legs). 'Ginny, what's wrong?' Instead of answering me, she keeps apologising. I do the first thing that comes to mind: I pull her from the wall and to my chest and hold her tightly. For the first time in two days, I've done something right. She relaxes, her arms dropping from her face to circle round my waist. I'm wise enough now not to tell her everything will be OK, but I gently kiss her ears and her forehead until she's ready to speak.

We can be a taciturn pair, particularly on certain issues, yet she surprises me again. 'Harry,' she asks my shoulder, 'can you walk?'

I contemplate making a joke, but decide otherwise. 'I don't think so.'

She mutters a few well-chosen oaths before following with another question. This time she pointedly looks me in the eye. 'Do you trust me?' Still that nagging fear there…

'I'm sitting here, aren't I?'

'Standing would be better proof,' she quips with a mocking scowl.

'I'll see what I can do,' I reply in a suitably insolent voice.

'You really know how to inspire confidence in a girl,' she grumbles. 'This is, of course, not a conversation I want to have on our wedding night,' she demands, her eyes narrowing to indicate she's absolutely serious.

'That won't be a problem.' I pull her closer, revealing the honesty of my statement. A devilish gleam returns to her eyes, along with a salacious leer. _How I love this woman._ But naturally…

'Come on, you two,' her colleague shouts from below, 'we haven't got all bloody day!'

Our eyes roll towards the ceiling. 'If she wasn't my boss…'

---(Ginny's POV)---

Having navigated my legless fiancé downstairs and corresponded with my dotty former headmaster, we three are ready to depart. Tonks and I are in full field dress: weighted black cloaks, dragonhide vests, knuckle-dusters, and boots. Tonks provides Harry with a dragonhide vest in case Catesby appears, but otherwise he's dressed as before. Harry glances at us furtively as if we are a pair of deranged rooks on a day outing. _I must ask him about his dreams._ Even after Tonks casts a new set of glamours over us he appears suspicious.

The rest of our plan is going swimmingly. As we suspected, the goblins rejected the plan until the Goblin Minister learned of the potential ramifications of our ingenious scheme for a certain junior minister. Professor Flitwick wrote Minister Grunog practically skipped – disturbing mental image – when he heard Perkins might be for the chop if we carry this off, even after it was explained to the Minister 'the chop' in question was merely figurative. With Grunog's weight behind the scheme, Gringotts diffidently submitted. Not all goblins bet.

After Tonks's man signals the all-clear, we swiftly break from the shop heading northwards along Moggan Wynd to Thane Gate. Haseltoun's burnished silver 'sky' threatens rain outwith and within. The clever buggers who charmed the dome devised the rain within to cleanse the town of offal and other refuse that would otherwise linger in the gutters. _Maybe it'll wash Catesby away, or at least keep little shit indoors until we leave._ Unfortunately, the looming downpour drives merchants and their clientele indoors, leaving only the destitute and either ignorant or unconcerned passers-by scurrying about on the roads. And not a few selkies. Tonks takes the lead first at a good five-to-eight yards distance, burdening me with my weak-kneed fiancé. We decide to use as little magic as possible to minimise our presence even though there's probably enough magic about to hide what we might do and alternate propping up Harry as he gamely tries to walk. He's managing to string together a few paces, but not enough to leave him alone.

Despite or perhaps because of the threatening showers, the shops along the road appear to be doing a booming business. Harry and I peer through their windows with astonishment as they fill to bursting. The green-grocers and fishmongers hurry their stock indoors as do the café owners their customers while clothiers and laundresses grin on. A witch, wizened beyond reckoning and gap-toothed, grins at me as I struggle keeping Harry upright with a shrug of understanding: wizards are all the same at that age, a pack of drunken boors. I smile back as best as I can, snatching him as he totters forwards.

Recognising the look, Harry tugs his forelock and delivers his best drunken leer to the old girl. Scandalised and enchanted, she slaps his arm, giggling as she trundles away.

'Should I be concerned?' An inquisitorial glare conceals the smirk on my face.

'Maybe in about eighty or ninety years,' he quips.

His face takes an odd expression as he sniffs the air apprehensively. 'What's that smell,' he wonders aloud, 'like seals at the zoo?'

Ah. 'Selkies.' An eyebrow rises as he opens his mouth ready to declare there's no such thing. Instead, he asks where.

'Well, the woman who just passed for one,' I reply. 'She's only about thirty-five.'

'Then why… what…?'

'It happens when they're ready to go back home.' _I think._ At least that answer satisfies him for now.

But he's still in an inquisitive mood. It's in his eyes as he squints trying to frame the question in a manner he can understand and I can answer promptly. In the end, he defers the query with a shake of the head. His silence and the odd looks he's giving Tonks and me are troubling. I pry. Unusually, I get no response except a grimace masquerading as a smile. Ordinarily, I would press further, but it's a hard enough slog without badgering a recalcitrant boyfriend for information.

When we reach the pub on the corner of Prestwick Lane, Tonks acknowledges my gasping and grunting with an offer to take him to the next rendezvous, handing me my kit bag. Though his weight is becoming a dreadful burden to bear, I'm reluctant to leave him, arguing I can carry on dragging him. But she overrules my plea as well as his declarations about being able to walk. We exchange burdens and westward we go, with a chary Harry arm-in-arm with an increasingly tetchy Tonks.

Though I'm a fair distance away, the empty roads make it impossible not to hear her striving to converse with Harry. He's polite yet desperately seeking to dissuade her from her efforts. In the end, she returns to her original assessment of the new Harry and calls him an arrogant prick. The ensuing war of insults leads to a truce of sorts as they continue to lob abuse at one another while chuckling or congratulating the inventor of a particularly creative attack. Glancing back, I see Harry's regained some strength in his legs. He's edging out of her clutches, endeavouring to travel without her assistance, which causes my boss to pull him closer. Since they've reached their little _détente_, I'm beginning to think she's taking advantage of her situation. Then other matters begin to take precedence.

Halfway down Kimnel Lane, the promised rains begin. It's been smirring ever since we passed Fenshawe the Ockerer's den, just up the road from the safehouse. Now it's coming down heavily to the sound of cats mewling in pitiful exasperation. Customers have ceased looking even mildly interested in the merchandise inside and are pressing their noses against the store windows only to be washed back by the rains upon the shelves to be feasted upon by the hovering clerks. Indeed, the deluge is threatening to drown us. Visibility has decreased as well. I can see figures well enough along the empty, narrow roads, but not clearly enough to recognise anyone. The weather has allowed us to sneak past a pair of listless patrols, however I doubt a more determined adversary would be so easily deterred. If we're to encounter Catesby, I'd rather be able to strike first than risk injury to either Harry or Tonks.

Speak of the devil's minion.

Mr Catesby's exchanged his Muggle clothes for non-descript robes, probably to blend in with the non-existent crowds, but it's definitely him. In spite of the obscuring torrent, it's obvious he's gravely unhappy. Hunched over against the downpour that soaks us all to the bone, his visage is twisted in an inaudible snarl. I needn't look behind to know Tonks has Harry safely sheltered somewhere. Loosening my cloak, I meet his aggressive stance with a defensive one. This should be entertaining...

---(Catesby's POV)---

The silly cow takes an obvious defensive posture. If it hadn't been for the buggering rain, I'd've had the drop on her. As it is, a couple of spells and it's back for tea and medals.

Of course, I'd have to find her little friend first. The last communiqué from on high cleared me to use the Killing Curse and him for _archiving_. Miss Weasley here may be despatched, if necessary. But first, a little playtime.

She has her own tricks. Shouting _Caligo!_ she disappears in a mist. Having read her file prior to taking this mission, I'm aware she's done this before and launch a powerful stunner at the centre of the fog while casting a formidable severing charm at her form as she jumps at me. She'll never know what hit her.

What the...?

---(Harry's POV)---

Tonks leaves me leaning against a store entrance after thrusting one of the wands taken from our warders into my hand as she rushes to help. Seconds later, she wrenches the wand from my grasp, hauls me from the doorframe and yanks me to where Ginny stands over a body. All the way Tonks mutters, 'Why do I bother?'

When we reach Ginny, she's grumbling as well. Kneeling on the cobbled road, she holds her cloak. With it off, she looks like a motorcyclist, although with a woollen jumper instead of a leather jacket. Though it's difficult to see through this rainstorm, particularly with glasses, I can tell she's sporting a look of disgust on her face. As Tonks and I approach, we learn why.

'Dirty bugger cast a severing charm,' Ginny groans to Tonks. 'Look what he did to my cloak!' The fabric's rent by an enormous, still smouldering diagonal gash. Setting her jaw as she stands, his wand in her hand, she gives the downed man a swift boot to his left shin.

'Ginny, dear,' Tonks interjects. 'He broke his _right_ tibia during the War.' A wickedly sweet smile winds its way across her face.

'Oh, right.' A boot to the appropriate shin follows, along with a nasty crack. Ginny mutters something like _ferrula_ and the man's leg becomes rigidly straight, saving it from further injury. She reclasps her cloak, sauntering towards us.

An ugly realisation dawns upon me. _The bastard tried to kill her._ 'That bloody...' I splutter. For a second, I forgot my legs aren't completely cooperative. Fortunately, Tonks isn't so absent-minded and rights me before I tumble onto the road.

'How did you disable him?' Tonks asks, grinning with undisguised pride while struggling to keep me vertical.

Ginny humbly shrugs putting the man's wand in one of the cloak's pockets. 'Fog charm, Apparated behind him, levitated the cloak, then thumped him.' As she exchanges her kit bag for me, I embrace her tightly until I hear a muffled 'Oof!' When I relax my hold, she grins at me broadly, blushing with exuberance. 'It was brilliant,' she declares, returning my embrace with equal if not greater fervour.

'You could have just gone for a bog-standard stunner,' Tonks states, the joy with which she'd initially greeted Ginny's success ebbing away, 'rather than showing off.'

Ginny remains exultant, her hand dancing in mine as the adrenaline still courses through her. Yet as she speaks with her boss, a professional demeanour imposes itself. The inflections in her voice flatten, the consonants become sharper, and her overall bearing more restrained. When we pass the man's limp body on the road, her foot raises the assailant's cloak revealing a vest similar to the ones we're wearing. 'I wasn't certain, but...'

Tonks smiles appreciatively, clapping a hand on Ginny's shoulder before taking the lead.

Having received the approbation of her boss, Ginny grins at me again as she guides me along the treacherously slick pavement. I don't know what to offer her. _Apparently nothing comforting._ She quickly looks away, shamefaced, believing that I think the worst of her. Yet it's the memories of figures in black roaming about my mind that plague me. And how casually she faced death. I shudder and feel a sympathetic trembling beside me. Pulling her closer to kiss her head, we stumble and slide dangerously on the cobblestones.

'You prat!' she mutters, swatting my stomach. But now I'm laughing, my worries momentarily forgotten. Our pace becomes erratic, especially after Ginny joins me. When Tonks turns around to glare at us, we nearly tumble. We're still giggling inanely by the time the rains stop and the crowds storm onto the pavement.

**

* * *

**

Minister of State Perkins's Office, Ministry of Magic, London

---(Babbage's POV)---

Perkins is in fine form today as she berates me about the ineptitude of the four Special Section officers she sent to Edinburgh. Coiled against her desk, hackles raised, fit to pounce, she ranting loud enough to awaken the Mistress of the Rolls. 'Come now, Minister,' I chide, 'they were merely following your orders.'

'That's a lie!' she shrieks. 'I told them to _observe_, not to act against that dreadful woman, and certainly not to get themselves sent to hospital!' Her bulging eyes threaten to burst from their sockets, her face becoming a rather violent shade of violet.

'Minister, you need to calm down,' I insist to no avail. _Politicians._ They have no stomach for the real art of governing. They merely want everything to be _easy_ and _simple_, much like themselves. 'Besides,' I scold, 'I dimly recall you ordered Mr Catesby to archive Miss Weasley and the other one, whoever he might be.' One would think that last statement would at least cause her to contemplate her actions a little further. One would be wrong, of course.

'How can I be calm?' she screeches. 'I've three...' The small gilt cauldron on her desk briefly smokes before coughing out a slip of paper. The Minister glares at the flattened page, gnashing her teeth. _Oh dear._ Now she's so furious that her rage constricts her throat so she can only curse at a mere whisper. 'I've four irreplaceable, loyal operatives in hospital at the moment, and you expect me to be calm?' The gravity of her situation, _our_ situation if I'm to be honest, allows her to regain a measure of composure.

'That Weasley woman is a menace,' she continues. 'And if that man with her is You-Know-Who, _and_ if he begins to you-know-what....' I could almost assume that Perkins is pausing for me to refute the logical conclusion of her thoughts, hoping against hope for an alternative. Yet in all my years in government, the one thing I've learned is that the direct approach is the best means of countering the most serious threats. One simply needs the will to carry the matter through. '...We may have to arrange something for them.'

Splendid! I love a good show trial. But of course she opts for the more gruesome option first.

'You've already tried that, you silly sod, and look what's happened!'

Well, that's finally silenced her.

**

* * *

Special note: While not possible to Apparate _into_ Haseltoun, it is possible to Apparate very short distances _within_ the town. Apologies for the hackneyed plot device.** While not possible to Apparate Haseltoun, it is possible to Apparate very short distances the town. Apologies for the hackneyed plot device. 


	17. The ErlKing, Part 1: Revelations

**There and Back Again Lane**

Ch. 17 – The Erl-King, Part 1: Revelations

**

* * *

**

Intermission: Intercession

**Chasing Down a Chaser**

—from _The Forgotten Recollections of Bevan Trimble,_ Daily Prophet _Reporter_

Muffled grumbles of 'Who the buggering hell could that be?' and the sounds of someone fighting with several locks greeted me as I knocked on the hotel suite of that lovely Chaser, Miss Katie Bell. She opens the door wearing a delightful light silk kimono and a scowl, declaring, 'You're late,' which is a surprise as she had no idea I was coming.

Noting the absence of a trolley of food, she astutely concludes, 'You're not room service,' and slams the door on my foot with a fine selection of oaths that would have made Mundungus Fletcher hold his ears, to which I add a chorus of my own as well as a plea for a short interview regarding a very odd story that's been circulating.

'Which one?' she inquires, stopping as she opened the door just wide enough to close it more forcefully, the scowl deepening on her still beautiful face.

'The one about Ginny finding Harry,' I squeal rapidly, grimacing in preparation for a (more) severely broken foot.

'But, in truth – in character, that is – I'm as ignorant of that as you are,' she swears, widening the opening even more for a greater pranging of my poor paw.

'Just five minutes!' I beg. Quite literally, on my knees with clasped hands shaking beseechingly and everything.

'Very well,' she decides, sauntering to a gorgeous _chaise longue_. 'What do you want to know?'

The first question stumbles from my mouth. 'How many days have passed?'

Miss Bell looks to the ceiling in utter disgust, 'Within the story? Three days, if one considers their departure to London as the first day.'

'Who's the secret keeper for the Fidelius charm under which Harry finds himself?'

'Even finding oneself under a Fidelius charm would be quite difficult,' she chortles. 'He is, of course. Now, hurry up. He'll be here any second.'

'Harry?'

'What? Certainly not!' she snaps. 'In character, I've no idea that he's alive. My knowledge of his continued existence is simply some daft plot device by a deranged half-wit. I'm waiting for someone else.'

'Who?'

'Next question.'

The stern look she gives me dissuades any further comment or queries. On we go. 'What happened with Mr Lupin and Miss Skeeter?'

'You'll find out in the next chapter.'

'And Mistress Clarke?'

'Same.'

Talkative creature, isn't she? As I've started, I might as well continue. 'Why did Ginny cower when Harry said he reminded her he couldn't remember?'

'Good question. Next.'

'Come off it,' I shout. 'Give me some bloody clue!'

'You are wasting my time,' she sings, annoyed by my impertinence. 'Next question.'

'What does Minister Perkins have against Ginny?'

'It's obvious, isn't it?'

'Well, no.'

'She's a threat to the Minister's career, isn't she?' Miss Bell replies. 'Initially, she was a nuisance. Now, Perkins presumes her to be a threat because Dudson, the berk who controls the rats that had Harry's flat in Edinburgh under surveillance, lost one of them – the rats, that is – to Fred and Angelina's owl. On the advice of her Permanent Secretary, Babbage, Perkins sent four agents from the Magical Law Enforcement Squad's Special Section to investigate the situation at a discreet distance. Not discreet enough, however.

'Ginny – and Harry, to a limited extent – put all four in hospital. The first three were sent to a Muggle hospital until Catesby informed Perkins of their failure, so you can only imagine how furious the junior minister was. Ordered him to kill the man travelling with Ginny on the mere suspicion –_suspicion!_,' emphatically thrusting an index finger accusingly into the air, '– that it was Harry so that no proof of his continued existence remained.'

Seeing that I am completely lost at this point, Miss Bell rolls her eyes, shakes her head with muttered oaths, and starts talking to me as if I'm three. 'Let me explain with a bit of Muggle philosophy. Admittedly, I probably shouldn't know this, but since this is entirely out of character anyway,' completing the sentence with a gentle shrug. 'OK, this clever chappie named Machiavelli argues in _The Prince_ that in politics it is better to be feared than loved, because the people can be fickle, you see.' She sees my mouth contort in disgust, my eyes wince in pain of the thought of such a belief and smiles sympathetically, nodding in agreement. 'Naturally, that fear can be effectively controlled is utter bollocks as well, as he himself notes, because that fear needs to be constantly reinforced and reimposed, which is impossible. Even if You-Know-Who had killed Harry, eventually some resistance would form, possibly bringing in something even worse than Voldemort,' she sighs as I shudder at the name, 'perhaps not. In any case, resistance would be inevitable.'

The befuddled expression must still be on my face as she rubs her eyes in an effort to gain time to explain herself in such a way that even a simple reporter could understand. 'You see, Perkins hadn't yet understood that by taking a more active course against Ginny and Harry, and Tonks I might add, the good junior minister created an ever worsening situation for herself. Perkins unintentionally promoted an active and strong resistance.' Now the cogs began to mesh within that rusty machinery I call a brain. 'Politicians do have an overwhelming albeit flawed instinct for self-preservation, so the simple act of admitting that Harry had survived and that she had hidden him way back when, even though that mistake likely _did_ save lives, never occurred to Perkins. That confession on her part would have been enough of an apology for many within the wizarding community, especially if tempered with the motions of seeking to find Harry afterward. Remember how many people believed Harry had gone mad when Dumbledore announced Voldemort,' shudder, 'had returned? In any case, if, or more importantly when the realisation that honesty would have been the best policy does occur to Perkins, as it will, it will be much too late for her to do the right thing, leaving her only with expedient and gruesome solutions to her problems.'

Did I write she's taciturn? What a fool I am. 'Er, OK, next question: Why hasn't Hermione revealed to the wizarding world that Harry's still alive and what Perkins had done to him?'

'Why don't you pester Oliver and Alicia with these questions, or, better still, Lee?' she chunters. 'He loves to talk, that one, being a Quidditch commentator and all that,' For once, I'm implacable, giving her my best muckraking journalist's glower. Unfortunately, she scoffs at my presumptious behaviour.

She answers the question nonetheless to speed me from the hotel suite. 'Right. First, don't forget Hermione's involvement in this affair. If she goes to the press about Perkins's involvement, her own part would come to light as well. Which leads to another question: How much does Ginny know about Hermione's involvement in Harry's Obliviation? You see how furious she is with Hermione just about not telling her Harry was still alive.' She hesitates momentarily as a pained grimace spurred by unpleasant thoughts forms on her face. My own frown of unease follows suit. 'Doesn't bear thinking about, does it?' A collective shudder occurs. 'Hermione will have to tell Ginny the whole story first, likely resulting in an irreparable rift between the pair. Perhaps Ron will be able to exert some influence on his sister, but likely not.'

'What about Mr Lupin?' I enquire.

'Again, his intercession might bring him more grief than not. It would be best if all four of them could come to an understanding together, but knowing this story, that won't happen,' she sneers. 'Secondly, Hermione wants Harry to be able to remember his past, which might worsen her isolation. Why? So that he might be able to protect himself against Perkins and her minions. Hermione might hope that he would understand why she became embroiled in his concealment. And lastly, Hermione and the rest need the documentation to prove what was done to him so some justice might be done.'

'Ron and Hermione will reappear in this story?'

'Of course they will, you daft sod! Weren't you paying attention to what I just said?'

I think about uttering a rejoinder, but I prefer having a quill in my hand rather than tickling my brain from inside a nostril. 'Fine then, an easier question. What did Malfoy do?'

'Honestly, I don't know what he did, except that it was very, _very_ bad.'

'OK, so who warned Malfoy to leave England?'

'I didn't even know he was still alive until that last chapter.'

'Now a simple question,' at least, I hope it is. 'Does Neville know Harry's alive?'

As I mutter that last question, someone knocks on the door. Miss Bell swiftly strides to the peephole/Foe-Glass to see who it might be before turning back to me, her face beaming with delight. 'Now, I might say, 'You could ask him yourself,' and open the door. Instead, I'll say, 'No,' and tell you to bugger off.'

Facing an eager witch with a drawn wand ready to hex me into eunuchdom, I take the hint and collect my things to Apparate away. But an odd feeling overtakes me as I depart Miss Bell's hotel room. By the time I return to the _Daily Prophet_'s offices, neither can I remember a thing about our conversation nor can I read the notes I'd taken.

I still can't believe she Obliviated me just as I Apparated...

**

* * *

**

Revelations

Haseltoun-under-Calton-Hill, Edinburgh

---(Ginny's POV)---

We are drenched to the bone but laughter warms us, as does Tonks's glowering. The roads begin to fill with all manner of wizarding folk and creatures. As the crowds bustle onto the roads we receive sneers from those who jostle our sodden persons. Resigned to the chastisement of the more fortunate townsfolk, my boss merely shakes her head while Harry and I grumble at their cheek. Honestly, if one doesn't want to risk getting a little moist from people in damp clothes, one should learn to walk with greater care. All very simple.

One set of people has no objection to our soggy apparel. Female selkies, with their deep black within black eyes, gaze longingly at Harry. Jealously, protectively, I wrap my arms around his torso and pull him closer to me, the pair of us still trembling with good humour. _At least his legs are working now._ With a finger to my chin, he guides me to face him. His gaze is loving, sweet, and a little conceited upon realising the reason for my rib-breaking hold on him, though that last emotion is tempered by a gentle yet chiding grin informing me I needn't worry so. Noting his attention to me and his polite but firm dismissal of their interest in him, the sea-maidens turn their attentions to other, more pliant young men. Unfortunately for the poor lasses, the men of Haseltoun are well-accustomed to selkie ways, as Tonks and I are to the male of the species.

My revenge comes soon enough as the seal-men notice Tonks and I emerging from the throngs, their avid eyes and lecherous leers following us as we wind our way down the road. Harry's arm swiftly snakes around my shoulders, returning my tight, possessive embrace while he glares menacingly as the contenders for my affections. They laugh sardonically, feigning indifference as they melt back into the crowds. It's strangely comforting that I can still make him jealous. Seeking to distract him from the mad notion I'd leave the lad I'd fancied since I was ten – though admittedly he doesn't know that – for a one-off with a selkie, I pinch his bum. He yelps and jumps in surprise before peering at the cause of his distress. Shame at his behaviour and astonishment at mine combine on his face as I affect the model of perfect innocence, all fluttering eyelids and beatific smile. Distracted by the brilliance of my own act, I fail to notice his arm has slid down my back until he grabs my bum for a quick squeeze for the second time in as many days. The dirty old man has the temerity to look bewildered as I gasp and start forward in shock. When I glare at him, however, he can't stifle a guffaw, earning him a glare from Tonks that I return with an out-thrust tongue. _So much for keeping a low profile._

Harry gawks with wonder at the multitudes that have joined us on the pavement. Desperately, he tries not to be so obvious but curiosity and awe have taken hold of his senses. As we career down Gramash Road, even I'm astonished by the variety of people on the roads. Young runners prang into us as they skitter along running errands for merchants and artisans, sporadically jabbing us with their elbows and parcels, sometimes with an apology but more often not. A glower here and there leads the pickpockets to avoid us and seek easier marks. Mums hold onto their young children and the shopping while dads scamper after the more mischievous sprogs. The eminent couples in brocaded robes trail well-groomed crups on dragonhide leads that nip at the runners and the occasional beggars as they scurry into the few available nooks and crannies provided by shops abandoned since the War. For their inconvenience, the indigents might receive a few knuts, though generally admonishments are more forthcoming.

There is, of course, a lighter albeit more debauched side to life in Haseltoun. Labourers, artisans, and apprentices of both sexes cheerfully and colourfully abuse passers-by with inventive insults and lewd invitations. Young women shopping with their parents behave modestly, blushing as if scandalised, although a few look back should the caller prove handsome. When accompanied by their friends and co-conspirators, they might embark on casual flirtation while casting a wary eye for parents or like-minded elders. For their part, young men dispense with the charade of manners and either sneer or leer in accordance with their desires, only to receive a slap from mum or a cuff from dad. Within packs of their mates, they might reply with their own sly suggestions. Or they might simply be prodded forward with a well-timed shove. Rarely did anything result from these forays, but the threat something would is enough to keep the local plod busy.

A gently squeezed hand provides a comforting break from the routine of gauging the threat posed the denizens as we pass through them. Harry has opened his mouth to speak, but the words refuse to issue forth. His brow creases with frustration as I note the black shape of the Millies' tower emerging over the buildings opposite site. When he turns to ask his question, he notes the determined look on my face and joins me in observing the centre of our potential opposition. Peering up the road, I see Tonks signalling me to follow her into a shop. Wondering what my boss is planning, I tug Harry along. _Buggering hell, I can't afford this!_

'Lakshmi Prem, Clothier and Laundress,' the sign declares above the shop windows. The toast of local society, especially after the War, with her ability to resurrect the most tattered rags and restore damaged robes to pristine condition. Her own selection of robes, dresses and other garments would make Madam Malkin reconsider her career as a clothier. A Scottish wizarding institution since 1953, the Prem family secured a place of honour in the hearts of those with the galleons to afford their services, which leaves me definitively off her list of customers. Harry acknowledges my slumped shoulders by pulling me closer to question me. When I don't answer, he sighs in frustration realising from my expression that this is one of those times pressing me for a reply will only turn my anger in his direction. Yet when we enter the shop, I'm gobsmacked.

Tonks is arguing with one of Madam Prem's daughters, or grand-daughters, about food.

'You said you'd bring back four pounds of Brie when you returned from France,' Miss Prem bellows in a heavy Glaswegian accent. 'But you bring us only two…'

'You know how the Department for International Magical Co-operation is about cheese,' Tonks interrupts in a pleading tone.

'And no bloody baguettes!' Miss Prem continues. 'You knew we couldn't make those sandwiches without the right bread and cheese. We were the laughing stock of Haseltoun for a good week after that party!'

'I told you that prat…'

'I don't want to hear any more bloody excuses! It's bad enough you make us look like fools in public, but you _still_ can't even brew a proper pot of tea even after I've spent _three bleeding months_ trying to teach you to cook!' Miss Prem has graduated to screaming now. 'How will you ever get a decent man if you can't cook!'

'Er, I did.' With that interruption their eyes swiftly shift to me. _A modest lie._ Tonks's posture exudes utter and undying gratitude for the brief respite from the castigator's tongue while Miss Prem casts me a scathing look of sheer disgust. But only for a moment.

'Ginny Weasley?' _Oh bugger._ 'My word it's pleasure to see you in our shop!' she declares, bouncing over gleefully. 'And who's this charming man?' _Double bugger, we forgot to name him._ At least Tonks is panicking with me…

'David Southam,' Harry swiftly replies holding out his hand. _How did he come up with that name so quickly?_ Gingerly, she accepts the proffered hand, which the cad next to me summarily kisses. I cast a sidelong glower that seems to have no effect, until he wraps an arm tightly round my waist. 'And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?' If I didn't know his intonations better, I'd say he was flirting with her. My scowl deepens, but she's taken in completely. _No sex for a week, I swear by all that's holy, even if I have to drown myself in cold showers to ensure it…_

'Sunita Prem.' Her smile is perfect. She's beautiful, rich, and probably fairly pleasant if you're on her good side. _Bugger abstinence, I'll kill him just for enjoying this so much._ Tonks, witnessing my temper mount and Harry's apparent obliviousness to his impending distress, politely coughs to regain Sunita's attention, though it takes a while for Miss Prem to detach herself from his smile.

Once she turns to face my boss and I ready myself to quietly berate the cretin next to me, the little bugger tickles me. My shriek unpleasantly brings me back to the two women's attention. _He's pure evil..._

'Do you have mice?' Harry asks innocently, seeking the immaculate, well-polished pine floor for possible rodents. The comment catches me in mid-snarl. When I look up, Tonks mirrors my gape-mouthed perplexity.

'Never!' Sunita avers. 'Miss Bennett there,' pointing proudly to a slightly obese grey kneazle raising her head to acknowledge her name with the look of permanent hunger and boredom engrained on her face, 'ensures that.'

Harry humbly apologises for his mistake, rakishly running a hand through his cutely ruffled hair, though not without making the glaring error of saying _Ms_ rather than _Miss_ Prem.

'A Muggle, Miss Weasley, here in Haseltoun?' Sunita is terrified, her doe eyes expanding with worry, fearing the immediate appearance of Ministry ordinances for breaking the Statute of Secrecy punishable by the possible requisition of the shop. But none come.

'Muggle-_born_, Miss Prem,' I assure her, smiling as I punch Harry hard on the arm. Tonks is barely able to contain a bout of laughter as her hair turns a violent shade of crimson while he rubs the sore spot. 'Some habits are harder to break than others.' It's sheer pleasure to see Harry scowl back at me.

'Men will always be _boys_,' Sunita sneers profoundly before rounding on Tonks once more.

Harry, recognising it's three against one, quickly finds a chair and stays quiet, albeit not without glaring at me in mock supercilious disgust. Realising I've been dismissed as well, I drift toward him. His regard is inquisitive but puzzled. I decide to pre-empt his questions with a simple one of my own. 'Whence did you get that name?'

'Bloke I knew at University. Bit of a prat, really.' He smirks then fixes me with an anxious stare, patting the space beside him for me to sit. 'Ginny,' he begins, taking my hand in his as he admires the floor, 'why were those four men after us?'

_Why ask a simple question, Mr Potter?_ 'I don't know.' I look directly into his eyes to prove my honesty. 'I think they were just sent to observe m–, er, us.' Shit.

'Why you, not us?'

Time again for the Muggle plaster solution. 'You remember that Tonks didn't recognise you until you announced yourself?'

'Is it part of the reason I can't remember my past?' _Why couldn't he be thick like Ron?_ Then again, there were a number of times I suspected my brother's dimness was merely a ruse...

'The effects are connected.'

'Bloody hell,' he huffs. 'Could this get more confusing?'

'Unfortunately, yes.' I hug him tightly, thinking mistakenly that's his last question. Instead, he uses my proximity against me.

'Were the same people responsible?'

'No.' _Please don't ask, please don't ask..._ He must have sensed me tensing as he takes another route, asking about the spell itself. Since it's a technical question and one on which I'm not altogether clear, my reluctance vanishes. I explain in general terms what's involved in memory modification. As expected, his face darkens as I describe the effects of Memory Charms.

'It's like sodding _1984_,' he growls. 'Doubleplusgood memories brought to you by the Thought Police.' My face furrows in bafflement as I try to understand what he's going on about. His muscles tense as he struggles with the temptation to pace about. Eventually, he settles for pulling away from me. He frowns in suspicion, leading me to wonder how much he truly trusts me. 'What was I, some dissident or something?'

_Shit shit shit._ I so want to tell him, but like as not the truth would make him doubt me more. 'Not at all...'

'If this Ministry is sending people after you because somebody deduces I'm with you, that someone must have been involved in erasing my past.' He's still on safe territory; a healthy distrust of the Ministry's motives is warranted and advisable. 'That someone tried to have you killed.' At least that gives me one reason why he still believes me. 'And it's altogether possible he or she might want me dead...' His voice falters as he blanches realising the precariousness of his position. 'Why was it so important that people couldn't recognise me?'

_Well, Harry, you were the saviour of the wizarding world, a veritable St George slaying the dragon to secure the safety of Great Britain and Ireland, if not the world, an English St Patrick sending some scrawny, weedy snake-man off this mortal coil._ Would he believe me? I wouldn't in his place. _You were a celebrity in our world, girls and young women fell at your feet as you stammered through blushing introductions, ducked demands for interviews as they rained down in torrents, your every deed became the subject of gossip._ Even better, dearie… _If you thought people were trying to kill you_ now, _well, five years ago…_ If I dig myself a hole deep enough I'll be cavorting with wallabies. Observing that my lip's about to gush blood, Harry changes tack.

His face scrunches painfully as he considers the next question. 'But how did they know you're living with me?' I'd pondered that myself and admit as much. 'You didn't tell anybody, did you?'

'Only Hermione.' _Oh bugger._ She wouldn't have knowingly told anyone, but Perkins might have had someone keep her under close observation to make sure no one else ever learned of Harry's survival and Obliviation.

'But she wouldn't...'

'Never,' I state unequivocally. 'At least not intentionally.' _OK, not so unequivocally…_

'Nineteen-bloody-eighty-four,' he grunts.

'What's the fascination about that year?'

'It's a book by George Orwell about totalitarian government, specifically Stalinist Russia,' he mutters. _That explains ever so much._ He sees my quizzical gaze. 'Stalin was a nasty brute of a man who ordered the deaths of millions, sometimes on the merest suspicion of dissent, occasionally for no reason at all.' He embraces me as the horror of his words overwhelms me. 'Sort of like your Tom.'

In shock, I pull away violently and fall with a loud thump onto the floor. Tonks and Sunita stare in our direction in mid-haggle. Noting my situation and assuming the worst, they move towards me but I wave them off. Except for a slightly raised eyebrow, Harry's face is entirely blank, which only terrifies me more.

'Who is he exactly?' He cautiously moves to sit next to me on the floor, yet fixes me with an inquisitorial stare.

I can't answer that. It's probably the weakest point in his treatment, the one most likely to cause a relapse if not discussed in a careful manner or without sufficient preparation. But I can't just leave him begging for an answer either. Time for the Janet and John bit. 'He's like that Stalin you mentioned,' I babble, 'seriously evil.'

'I'm aware of that, but who is, _was_, he?' So he knows Tom's dead. 'Why did I kill him?' he hisses, gazing towards the other two to see whether they were eavesdropping.

'I want to tell you,' I plead, 'really I do, but I can't.'

His face becomes blank again as he shakes his head. 'Why?'

A direct answer playing on his desire to avoid unnecessary pain comes to mind. 'Do you want another migraine?'

'Good point,' he says smirking, helping me back onto the chair. But he hasn't finished with his questions. 'So, why did you back away from me on the bed this morning?'

'Same reason,' I grin.

'Not entirely.' _Is he a Legilimens?_

Should I risk a relapse or wait until Hermione discovers a way to restore his memory so he can dispel her sodding Fidelius charm? Who knows; being the clever bugger she believes herself to be, perhaps she engineered the means of removing the charm without requiring the secret-keeper's involvement. _Sod it._ 'For a second, Harry,' I whisper, 'you reminded me of him, as well.'

'How?'

It's amazing that a simple one-word question can require volumes to explain. I can see Tom emerging from that diary, his eyes burning with undisguised malevolence, a ravisher's glare, dissecting me to glean what would give me the greatest pain and him the most pleasure, his black hair similarly unruly and jaw tensing with rage. Harry's rants in my fourth year were no less explosive, and were only less cruel because of his inexperience. Yet I had coped with outbursts from Lord High-Bastard himself; Harry's tantrums were comparatively easy to control. I go for a quelling look, but it's half-hearted. He won't be dissuaded.

'What did he do to you?' He places my hands in his as he searches for my eyes.

But I can't bear to tell him. Not yet. So I make my own inquiry. 'What do you have against Tonks?'

He becomes fascinated with a mirror angled to offer a view of passers-by. I nudge his leg with a knee seeking some sort of response but he's as stubborn as me. 'It's difficult getting used to someone who can change their appearance as easily as that,' he finally mutters. _Now who's speaking in half-truths._

'I trust her, Harry.'

'I know you do, Ginny,' he replies, 'but you've known her longer.' I can't hide my disappointment with that comment, discerning there's something else.

'You're suspicious of our robes, aren't you?' He nods. 'What did you see in your dream?'

A chill runs through me as he relates his duel with Tom the night of the third Triwizard task. Harry had told me the story before, but the unreality of the situation to him now makes its retelling much more terrifying. The images hordes of men in black robes roaming cemeteries in the wee hours, led by that gangly serpent-faced git with delusions of godhood, are so clear in my mind now I'm back at the last battle, the sights, smells, and sounds threatening to crush me. Yet he's there as well. I hear of his last few conscious moments as a citizen of our world, of the final battle with Voldemort.

'An Empathy Charm?' I murmur. _They never expected him to survive. The bastards led him forward, the proverbial lamb to the slaughter, to fight and lose to Tom so Voldemort would be human enough for them to finally kill._ Who in the Order knew about this? Did Hermione and Ron know? Harry certainly did. 'You _bastard…_' I mumble as the grief I'd suffered all those years ago resurfaces, transfiguring swiftly to fury. 'You fucking bastard!'

Harry's horrified as I shove him brutally from the chair. At the back of my mind, I know _my_ Harry is ignorant of that suicide plot, but that voice is drowned out by the blood pumping through my ears. Distantly, Tonks and Sunita are coming to investigate the cause of this latest explosion, Miss Prem reproving me for swearing in her shop. Faintly, I feel my face burning, evaporating the tears slowly streaming down my cheeks. Advancing towards him, I cock my fist threateningly. He scrambles to his feet to gain some space to appease my rage. 'You told me none of this! You _knew_ you were going to die!' _Buggering shit!_

---(Harry's POV)---

That explains a few things, but leaves me with a host of new questions.

Her hand latches to her mouth, her legs mechanically but inefficiently treading backward, missing a step causing her to stumble. I'm caught between guilt-laden uncertainty and the desperate need to learn more. Noting Tonks and Ms Prem advance in our direction with a sidelong glance, I ready myself for the inevitable accusations unwilling for them to stop me from making my own.

Ms, _Miss_ Prem, gawps open-mouthed between Ginny and me. Sunita's glances in my direction seem to foretell me rampaging through her lovely boutique feasting on, or at least biting everyone in sight. Towards Ginny, one witnesses the threat of scandal in her furrowed brow, the hatred brought by righteous indignation against the immoral and unclean finds evidence in the burning glare, while her otherwise gentle jaw looks fit to tear my beloved to pieces.

Tonks, on the other hand, is ashamed and appears apologetic. She tries to restrain Sunita with little success. Mind, I doubt it would be very on to cause physical harm to someone from whom we were seeking assistance. Growling and scowling, I set myself in front of Ginny, who's uncharacteristically wimpering against the wall. I take my best hard man pose – legs apart, head cocked nonchalantly to one side, arms at the ready – and stare Miss Prem down. 'Leave her be,' I grunt.

'Leave my shop,' she retorts with equal menace, pulling out her wand.

I bluff. 'Don't you remember who you have in this boutique? Toss _her_ out,' motioning towards Ginny with a nod, 'and see how society reacts.' Miss Prem stands firm. Her eyes squint as she considers my threat.

'Think of what you'll have to gain by helping her,' speculating wildly to improve our bargaining position. Tonks seems even more nervous.

'Such as?'

A name overheard from Tonks and Ginny's conversations comes to mind. 'Perkins.' Tonks slumps in what I hope is relief, an assumption I'm glad to find is correct.

'How?'

'_Plans within plans,_' I intone. 'The less you know, Miss Prem, the better. You know how Perkins is.' _Is Perkins a man or a woman?_ Let's hope she doesn't ask, eh?

Sunita grimaces in recognition, before ordering me from the store. Tonks assures me she will look after Ginny while I'm gone. I peer at my fiancée but she's determinedly looking outside through the shop window from her seat against the wall. Her eyes are red from crying and a quivering hand is still clamped over her mouth. It takes all my willpower, and a guiding arm from Tonks, not to comfort her and leave the clothier's quietly. With the familiar tap on the head to alter my appearance once more and an admonishment not to stray too far, I depart only to turn immediately towards the window to catch Ginny's attention. But Tonks is kneeling in front of her, distracting her. _Meddlesome..._

I know I shouldn't be so harsh to Tonks. She's only trying to help and none of this is really her fault. Unfortunately, she has as much success in pacifying Ginny as I did. Through clenched teeth, Ginny appears to tell her boss off, springing away. Tonks looks shattered and appalled, frowning as she sees me through the window. Somehow, I manage a sympathetic smile that she thankfully returns. This brief moment of reconciliation ends abruptly as Ginny herself barrels through the door, charging up to me, her face contorting under the influence of a welter of emotions.

'Don't say anything,' she utters still not daring to look at me, 'not here.' Her hand grabs my cloak as she leads me like a recalcitrant primary school student through the shop into the back room, ignoring Tonks's half-hearted pleas and Sunita's shouted warnings. A few muttered words unlock the store-room door then lock it behind us, upon which Ginny finally releases me.

'I'm so sorry, Harry,' she tells the polished pine once the banging on the other side of the door ceases. Her back is to me so all I see is scraggly brown hair and hunched shoulders. Surprisingly, that's what annoying me most at the moment.

'Can we get rid of these bloody disguises for a second?'

When she faces me, I can't tell whether she's relieved or disappointed by my request. She complies none the less. Back to red hair, brown eyes, and re-emerging freckles, a face I know better than my own. 'Right,' which seems like the right thing to say, 'right. So, I died.'

'R-right,' she mutters. 'At least, I thought you did.' I'm tempted to tell her to look at me instead of her hands and the shelves, but this situation is tenuous enough as it is.

'So, my time in hospital was when...' I trail off prompting her to continue the story.

'...Your memory was modified,' she eventually replies.

'So.' I note the monotone creeping into my voice to cover my exasperation. 'Will you look at me, please?'

She's gnawing on her lip for sustenance, her eyes are drowning in unshed tears. I take her in a squelching embrace before she loses that lovely lower lip. She sobs briefly as she firmly clutches the front of my robes, wringing the rain from them. I hold her closer to me. 'Some bloody Auror I am,' I hear her mumble into my shoulder.

'Well, you took care of those other three well enough,' I answer supportively.

'I did, didn't I,' she admits with a chuckle.

'Three-nil's a decent result,' I add. 'A hat-trick, even.'

She becomes sombre again. _What have I done wrong now?_ 'You won't interfere next time, will you,' she asks. Remembering the lectures she gave me on Clerk Street and at the Tron Kirk, I nod and swear I won't.

'You said I knew I was going to die.'

'Er, yeah.' I feel her tensing for impact.

'Why?'

'I recognised the spell you used against _him_,' she says, spitting the last word. 'It's not a combat spell, but a very old one, almost forgotten. Long ago, it was cast by couples about to be married to ensure they were compatible.' She relaxes a little, her arms falling to circle my waist.

'Doesn't sound that dangerous at all.'

'It was if you found out your intended was marrying you for ulterior motives,' she scoffs. 'The charm's use was outlawed in 1851 after a spectacularly brutal engagement party that left six dead, eight gravely injured, and a further five permanent residents at St Mungo's.' Seeing my confusion, she continues. 'It's our largest hospital. Any road, supposedly the bride was plotting to poison the 'groom to elope with his best friend.'

'_Plus ça change..._'

'Quite.'

'Why was I using that spell against that Tom thing?'

'I don't know.' _She's lying._ Having come this far, well, it's a start.

'Considering your reaction earlier, we must have been seeing one another by that point.'

'Yes,' she squeaks.

'I am still alive, you know.'

She pinches my arse, with both hands, causing me to scoot closer to her. 'Just making sure,' she assures me.

'There are easier ways,' I chide in mock disgust.

'I don't think we have time for _that_, though,' she states. 'And you're too noisy.'

'Me?' I gasp with incredulity.

'Mm-hmm,' she affirms, pulling away slightly, her lips pulled tightly to contain her amusement, her eyes moist from the effort.

Giving her my best scowl, I distract her long enough to give her a proper tickle. The banging on the door recommences as the store-room erupts with Ginny's throaty laugh.

She opens the door to Tonks's bemused expression. 'Seeing that you're still fully clothed and not breathless, you must have resolved some issues,' Ginny's boss chunters. 'I've resolved our clothing problem while you two have been fannying about. Hopefully, not literally.'

Tonks informs us she and Sunita had been schoolmates. There's a hint of something more. Either Tonks feels it's too complicated for me to understand or that it will make me more suspicious of her. Her avoidance of the subject deepens the doubts I have. Whispering my concerns to Ginny, I learn that the two must have been members of an organisation that fought Tom. The _Order of the Phoenix._ The name sends shivers down my spine despite what Ginny says. Yet a vague feeling of familiarity follows, a confused play of irritation and belonging, almost like one would have to a mildly dysfunctional family.

Ginny's treating me as if I'm fragile again. She's constantly giving me worried sidelong glances. It's dead annoying. She must be concerned that I'll have another episode. Since that dream in which I witnessed my own death, or dying, or whatever the bugger it was, my illness has gradually ebbed away. As long as someone doesn't blurt out another major revelation, I'll not have any more migraines. Until it's time, that is. I tell Ginny my hypothesis about the correlation between learning about my past and the headaches, but she isn't quite convinced. _I thought_ she _would've believed me, at least._ We are a pair of worriers.

To escape her pitying gaze for a moment, I survey the shop. Even knowing little of fashion, and less of wizarding styles, I see why Ginny was so reluctant to enter the shop. Just one of the dresses would require all my wages and most of my weekly stipend. I doubt Miss Prem is so nostalgic of her old school days, or Tonks after that argument, to lend us even a piece of these clothes. Tonks reveals to us I'm half-right.

Wisely, Ginny's boss convinced Sunita to offer us more commonplace garments. So drab we wouldn't have looked out of place during the Commonwealth. In other words, ideal. I give Tonks a genuine smile. She looks positively shocked, but returns it none the less. A relieved sigh from beside me and a glance at Ginny shows she's utterly relieved. Squeezing her hand, I smile at her as well. Happily, she responds in kind.

Tonks insists we all dress separately. Too clever by half, sending me off first to the store-room so she can confer privately with Ginny. I can only imagine the substance of their discussion. As I guiltily drop my wet clothes onto the elegant floors, raised but unintelligible voices pierce the door. Whatever the subject of the latest argument might have been, Ginny's face bears the signs of defeat as she passes me. She merely shakes her head when I try to stop her. I shoot a menacing glare in Tonks's direction, but Ginny's boss is unimpressed. When I make to interrogate her, she interrupts with the declaration Ginny will lead us the rest of the way. My love's behaviour throughout our walking tour of this town has been decidedly unprofessional. Tonks doesn't bother to conceal my complete responsibility for her charge's failure. A pat on the arm tells me it's a sympathetic accusation, though. _Meagre consolation._

---(Ginny's POV)---

She's right, of course. Doesn't make me any happier about it. _Sod it all._

Changing quickly, I dry our clothes. Even with my wand's signature on file they won't take a second glance at a simple drying charm performed here. Pity it doesn't work very well on dragonhide. I never managed to get my head round the theory for that spell, despite Charlie and Hermione's explanations. _Charlie._ If we were transporting him instead of Harry I don't doubt she would be the one being dressed down. Truthfully, Sunita would be reprimanding the both of us; Tonks and Charlie would be mauling each other endlessly while I'd be berating him. Indeed, only Harry's present misgivings of my dear boss are preventing a similar, albeit reversed, situation here. Let us be thankful for small mercies.

Departing the store-room with our dry clothes on my shoulders and my still sodden dragonhide gear in my hands, I run into Sunita. She immediately chides me for doing her part in this job and scoffs at my inability to dry the rest, snatching my boots, vest, and gloves from me and storming off in a feigned huff into the store-room and the laundry room behind. As I stand in the middle of the aisle nonplussed and gape-mouthed, Tonks passes shaking her head and snickering. _Oh, thank you so very bloody much, Nymphadora._

Harry's staring sullenly at Tonks's back before a wave attracts his attention. A fleeting smile comes to his face on taut lips, demonstrating he's irritated about something. _I hope he's pissed off at the same thing I am._

'Well, Miss Moses, I hear you're going to lead us to the promised land.' I frown at the reference but I'm pleased to find I was correct. He asks whether my row with Tonks was as nasty as it sounded in the store-room. Shame keeps my mouth shut save for a terse, 'Yes.' He comforts me with a hug and the lie it will be over soon enough. Then again, I think he just means our current jaunt.

Tonks returns after a short discussion with Sunita with our gear in non-descript shopping bags. Harry takes charge of my kit bag while Tonks and I play sisters. _About time he did some work on this trip,_ I muse with a smirk. A raised eyebrow indicates he caught the unspoken jibe yet deigned to respond somewhat maturely. Sunita performs the Metamorphosis Charms this time, with great success. We look as dull and uninteresting as our borrowed clothes. After familiarising ourselves with our new appearances, we depart, but not before our host extracts from Tonks a promise to continue with her culinary studies and from me to return, without my boorish boyfriend. I succeed in concealing my annoyance at the suggestion of Harry's bad behaviour while he shrugs off the comment without the slightest care. Except a slight grin. _If only they both knew who he was…_ I'll wait until then before returning.

The route to Bogle Wynd is much more pleasant now that we aren't squishing our way through heavy crowds. People are still engaged in afternoon shopping, but from the throngs of a little while ago they've dwindled down to a few ragged packs. Without Harry next to me, I _am_ much more cautious and conscious of our surroundings. I glance back at Tonks and him occasionally with the hand mirror but restrain from making it an habitual occurrence. Which is fortunate as we are nearly bumped by four patrols from the local plod. Fortunately, they don't seem to be on the look-out for anyone specific, nor are they travelling in groups larger than three. Still, it's worrisome that their numbers have increased so near Gringotts. If Miss Prem wasn't a member of the Order, I'd suspect she had denounced us.

Reaching the corner of Gramash Road and Bogle Wynd, I glance down at the hand mirror to see where the other two are. Suddenly, a figure collides into me. For a second, I'm unsure how I should act. _Should I treat it as an accident and hope that I'm not recognised, or should I behave in accordance with my training and incapacitate the individual?_ I opt for a poor compromise between both and stagger with the impact. I clamp my fingers around the mirror before it falls from my grasp and thrust it inside one of the robes pockets as I stumble. My other hand finds my wand. My hat, however, tumbles off my head to roll down the road before being trampled by a small child.

To my surprise, my assailant is a member of the Millies, Owen Lloyd, recognisable without looking by his cursing in a blurred and burring Welsh accent. We worked together a fair bit after I moved north. A good man, though a bit too focused at times. _Like the present._ When I peer surreptitiously at his face, brown eyes puffy from lack of sleep, thick black eyebrows and bushy black hair, sturdy jaw, I suspect he can't identify me. The suspicion becomes a certainty when he flirts with me after apologising. It takes all my self-control not to give him the same scowl that stopped him the first time round. This time I thump his shin with my shopping bag, giving him such a talking to he likely hasn't received since he was in short pants. Owen excuses himself with proper professional courtesy, though I catch a few select muttered insults as he collects my ruined hat. _That's two apologies I'll have to make…_

Tonks and Harry arrive soon after Owen leaves with a final apology and tug of his hat-brim, red-faced from withholding their laughter at my improvisation. 'You're evil, you know that,' she finally splutters as Harry contorts his face to avoid causing a worse scene. I roll my eyes at the pair of them. Above us, the sun disk traversing the dome is shifting slowly from gold to bronze.

A – hopefully imperceptible – shudder of panic passes through me. There are still several hours of daylight remaining, but we should have been moving quicker. Perkins must have learned about the failure of the Special Section team by now, and I can't be certain that whoever's controlling the rats doesn't have a few of them following us. Without a word, I advance down the road doing my best to appear absolutely casual. Glimpsing at the mirror, the other two seem to be following me well enough. They've even begun to space themselves out, with Harry taking the centre. He looks bored, but a few things are simply too fascinating for him to avoid gawking at them. Tonks has taken to being disgusted, rolling her eyes while huffing at her heavy load. _She's a far better actress than I'd previously thought._

We pass another set of Millies without bothering to conceal ourselves, or they to recognise us. They haven't even set up checkpoints or barricades, either. I motion for Tonks to enter a small café a short distance away from Gringotts as I wait for Harry outside a shop selling Quidditch jerseys and gear. Despite the burning desire to window shop, I peer out forlornly at the road as if I'm waiting for my fool boyfriend or son to leave the shop. He's puzzled when she passes by him muttering oaths about the young men of today, approaching me with a bemused look as I gesture for him to continue past me, whispering that he should stay in the shop until one of us comes for him. Other than sighing and grumbling about 'this cloak and dagger shite,' he does as he's told. I must remind myself to give him a biscuit and a scratch behind the ears once this is all over. _Silly git._

The café would be an ideal place to while away a day, reading the _Daily Prophet_, drinking tea, and gaining about twenty pounds on pasties and sweets. The place modestly combines the old stone architecture with Muggle furnishings from the 1950s. _Harry would love this place._ The pair at the coffee bar engages in light conversation with the regulars. The man shares Quidditch results and predictions while the woman offers style advice to some of the female customers until one prediction catches her ear. 'Puddlemere? Are you daft? They've some decent players but the Harpies will win the League this year.' The debate continues long after I find Tonks.

'I didn't know you knew about the Silver Knut,' she whispers as I sit next to her at the bar. She laughs when I admit my earlier ignorance. 'Well, now you know.'

She loses her good humour when I inform her of my concerns. As expected, she's similarly anxious. In the window display full of sandwiches, the reflection of a rat peers in, wiggles its whiskers, and wanders off. I'm about to warn my boss when the front window implodes as a squad of Millies bursts in. _Bloody hell._

Tonks and I roll off our seats and scramble for cover. To our surprise, the staff and customers have joined us in the hunt for hiding spots. _Well, the war wasn't that long ago…_ I perform an Impediment jinx on one of the squad's ankles, sending him crashing to the floor before hurling myself across the floor flinging a string of jinxes and curses at the four that have been so kind as to silhouette themselves in front of the gaping window frame. Happily, I recognise none of them. Tonks stuns another, rolling just before receiving the same herself while my flailing takes down another one. The other three Millies plough through tables and chairs to find us, only to receive a blasting curse from Tonks, throwing him back out the way whence he came.

Strangely, the last two seem to have taken heart with the loss of their four colleagues. A Reductor Curse demolishes the table behind which I'd been hiding, flinging me against the side wall despite the shield charm I'd cast. Tonks launches an _Immobulus_ jinx at my attacker who deflects it with a Refraction Charm towards me. Unfortunately for him, I'd seen this trick before and use a Reflection Charm with a Blasting Curse of my own knocking him stiffly into one of the few tables still standing. The last squaddie wisely decides to retreat and wait for reinforcements. Thoughtfully, my boss catches him with a stunning spell just as he was leaving.

We don't hesitate to scarper either. Tonks guards my back from just outside of the shop while I race to get Harry. The roads have emptied again and shutters have been drawn to protect the inhabitants against flying debris from another battle. My daft prat of a boyfriend, however, is heading in our direction. He might as well just shout out. 'I'm an outsider!' but it does simplify the task of finding him. Grabbing his arm we begin running, chasing Tonks to Gringotts, all pretence of a clandestine approach gone. Black shapes emerge from the Millies' barracks in tune with the wailing klaxon. _Buggering hell!_

Stunners and Impediment jinxes blast the cobblestones as we scramble towards Gringotts's white marble steps. When we finally begin climbing towards the entrance, the Millies alight from their brooms halfway up the steps, wands drawn, ready for the worst. And it is. Tonks and I recognise all four of them. None of us is eager to curse or jinx their presumed opponents. Only the arrival of a contingent from the bank's security guards – including a number of snarling, biting Red Caps – led by the resident managing director saves both sides from an unfortunate tragedy.

'Those three,' declared Managing Director Dergspruan, pointing at us with a very sharp nail, 'are under the protection of the Goblin Minister and His Majesty, Filius. Should any harm come to them, you know very well what will happen!'


	18. The ErlKing, Part 2: With Pearl and Ruby...

**There and Back Again Lane**

Ch.18 – The Erl-King, Part Two: With Pearl and Ruby Glowing

_If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well_

_It were done quickly. If th' assassination_

_Could trammel up the consequence, and catch_

_With his surcease, success; that but this blow_

_Might be the be-all and end-all – here,_

_But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,_

_We'd jump the life to come._

—William Shakespeare, _Macbeth_, Act I, scene vii

**

* * *

**

An Aside: Common People

**The Leaky Cauldron, London**

A pair of old men sat at a table, a bottle of Ogden's Firewhisky between them. Acrid, pungent smoke billowed from their clay pipes sending blue smoke to the rafters where it was quickly absorbed by the dark brown fog creeping slowly downward. They were chatting about the usual things – sexual innuendos about the barmaids, Quidditch results, and the best way of ridding oneself of the pox – when the older of the two noticed something terribly odd to his left. His brow furrowed, eyes squinted, and tanned teeth chomped on his pipe. 'What's that, then?' he grunted to his compatriot, pointing to the interloper with the mouthpiece of his pipe.

The other man squinted in the general direction his friend indicated but saw little without his spectacles. He hunted for them, patting his rough linen robes before finding them perched atop the bird's nest of grey crowning his head. Lowering his glasses, he peered through the alcohol and tobacco induced fog to be doubly sure of what he saw. 'I think that's what's called a "reader/reviewer," Edmund,' he returned after carefully examining the newcomer with his rheumy eyes.

Edmund peered again at the unusual figure seated across the room, staring at them. 'Bollocks, Tim. They're a myth.'

'Hmm.' Tim blinked, considering what Edmund said, looking once more at the person in their bizarre clothes. _What kind of person doesn't wear a robe when going out these days?_ 'You're prob'ly right.'

Certain they had witnessed something akin to a pink elephant, the two men immediately addressed the situation with a few further glasses of Firewhisky.

**

* * *

**

Port of Shadows

**Haseltoun-under-Calton-Hill, Edinburgh**

---(Harry's POV)---

Here I stand and, as Martin Luther reputedly said, I can do no other. Difference is that his mouth wasn't gaping wide with astonishment and exhaustion at the time, nor were his eyes blinking in disbelief at a pack of rudely crafted midgets and their demented garden gnome-like pets on leads. I've no desire to know what the red-capped beasties eat. Their sharp little gnashing teeth and grasping claws are reason enough to avoid them. But the whatever-they-are ordered the gits on sticks to leave us be, so they mustn't be that horrid, eh?

Tonks is unfazed by our mad dash to and up the steps. Ginny, however, is uncharacteristically winded, gasping as if suffering an asthma attack. When I move forward to see if she's OK, both of them gesture for me to stay back. After a while, Ginny appears to master her laboured breathing, though the slight shaking of her clenched left fist reveals otherwise.

The four on the steps before us, above us, whatever, scarcely acknowledge the host gathering behind them. As they'd come from that fire-blackened tower that Ginny had informed me is the wizard's police barracks, I guess we're now Bonnie and Clyde, except without the concomitant Serge Gainsbourg theme song. _Pity, that._ The wizard constables still hold their wands menacingly, yet the uncertainty that had been plaguing them – written in bold on their pained faces – has been erased, replaced by the conflicting emotions of discomfiture and relief. The head whatsit repeats his(?) ultimatum while those handling the red-capped beasties give the leads more play that their charges seek to exploit to the fullest, snapping and clawing at the air between them and the four, eyes bulging with hatred and hunger.

The senior officer stands closest to us. He squares his shoulders, disguising to the three behind him the unease that's all too visible on his face. The sole woman in the group straightens her hat in an effort to appear unconcerned by the new dilemma. The two men on the flanks move in closer to the other two for safety and comfort. _They know us, or at least Ginny and Tonks._ An eternity passes before our pursuers stow their wands in their robes and clamber back onto their broomsticks to soar off to the blackened tower. The sound of hobnail boots on cobblestones storming into the distance behind us announces the departure of our earthbound tormentors. Only then do Ginny and Tonks return their wands to their robes as we climb to meet our rescuers.

Tonks motions for us to stop a few feet from the top of the stairs as she advances towards our defenders. She curtseys – odd sight – to their leader before parlaying with him in some foreign language that Ginny informs me is gobblegook. My face creases in disbelief, but she explains that goblins talk Gobbledegook just as Merpeople speak Mermish. When the look of bemusement fails to withdraw, she pats my arm stating I'll remember this one day. _Will it make any more sense then than it does now?_

Some of the goblins are, I must say, very well dressed. In their silk waistcoats, ties, and dress jackets, gold watch-bobs, and gaberdine trousers, they wouldn't look out of place at a Victorian dinner party if they were taller and hadn't such pointed features, or teeth. They'd fit in perfectly in the City, though. The others, whom I assume must be guards, look like deranged extras from a Kurosawa samurai film or an historical drama on the Beeb in their steel cuirasses. This lot forms a cordon around us reining in the Red Caps (I'm becoming accustomed to being astonished), swatting the beasties that come too close to us with wooden truncheons.

The former group advances towards us, Tonks following a step or two behind the leader. She introduces us to Managing Director Dergspruan. Ginny curtseys as well – oddity number two – while I try my best at a polite bow. To my surprise, I see a small, clawed hand held out before me. Gingerly, I shake it – surprisingly warm, that hand – noting a peculiar hint of recognition in his eyes. His brow furrows, and he searches for some familiar feature on my face as Ginny had two years ago. _So much for being David Southam._

We follow the well-dressed goblins inside the white marble structure, our escort making certain no one molests us any further. Ginny stays close to my side. For some reason, I think she intends to ensure I don't commit some horrible breach of protocol, or tell anyone my true name. The look on her face seems to confirm that suspicion. Guiding me by the arm as if I'd been blinded, she leads me inside.

'It's a bank,' I murmur. _Brilliant deduction, Mr University Graduate._ Ginny rolls her eyes in amusement – at least, I hope it's that – and prompts me to move along. Despite the size of the building, I'm amazed not to be confronted with a forest of load-bearing pillars. Those there are bear etchings reminiscent of Roman victory columns. Instead of relating a tales of battlefield triumphs, they reveal grief, betrayal, and resurgence, this last particularly prominent at the average goblin's eye-level. The intricate depiction is repeated at least one more time as the pillars rise up to the beautiful vaulted ceiling. Light streams in through high, thin stained glass windows that remain free of grime in spite of all the candles within and the fires outwith. The windows begin with the comparatively cheery tale of the establishment's business. The last set of windows resembles the rosette behind the high altar at Notre Dame in Paris or Chartres, although the story the one here portrays deals less with redemption than retribution. Mildly disgusted by the tales of woe of those who'd wronged the bank, I stare fixedly at the floor. It's a mixture of black and white marble tile arranged in a chess-board pattern – I assume to reinforce that this is indeed a financial establishment – broken by the occasional mosaic with the bank's name and motto in three languages, the most prominent of which I assume is Gobbledegook. _Gringotts._ I run that word a few times through my mind, hoping it would trigger a memory, but all I feel is an awkward shame, if not complete embarrassment.

Ginny peeks at me expectantly, possibly concerned I'd taken her feigned annoyance at face value, especially now that my face is screwed up in concentration. Squeezing her hand I smile quickly back at her. She looks done in, wheezing slightly. It's my turn to look anxious and stricken. 'Might have a broken rib,' she replies to my unasked question.

'The shop with the missing windows?'

She nods and coughs a little, but thankfully there's no blood on her lips. When I move to find us somewhere to sit, she wraps an arm around me and tells me to follow Tonks. Ginny's boss is busy conversing – in English – with the managing director as we traverse the great hall towards the rosette. The clerks are arranged along the hall in a horseshoe, seated behind enormous cherry wood desks that dwarf not only the clerks but their clients as well. From this superb vantage point, a galaxy of bright beady eyes watches our every move as only four other non-goblins are still in the bank at this late hour. Beside every fourth desk is another of those pillars. Obviously, goblins are not a forgiving lot.

We eventually reach where Tonks and Mr Dergspruan are waiting near the end of the hall. Ginny's face is a little flushed and her breathing is heavier than usual but she seems well enough to continue at the moment. Mind, if her leg was broken she'd likely either hop or drag herself the entire way to wherever it is we're going. The managing director's tapping his foot with impatience as Tonks seeks to distract him with questions about the bank's architecture while casting worried looks in Ginny's direction. The Guv gives me a brief smile as I gingerly prop up her charge once more, albeit not without a couple of laboured huffs. I peer at Ginny's lips again and see only a little clear spittle. Her face is no more flushed than before. Two good signs; how long will this last?

The corridor to Mr Dergspruan's office is immaculate, so much so I'm afraid of skating accidently across the polished parquet floor. The panelling is an elegant stained maple adorned with portraits of what I assume are former directors. And they're moving. The directors, that is. I whisper this to Ginny only to receive a glare of utter incredulity until she remembers how new these things are to me now, or again. _I'm going to do my own head in soon enough._ The subjects in the portraits do not appear at all pleased to see us, their contempt evident in snarls, glowering, and even cursing. I find myself trying to remember when I last had a drink...

Once inside, I carefully lower Ginny onto one of the high backed chairs. The managing director is seated behind a large bureau upon which lay several parchment broadsheets filled with minute Elizabethan (I think) calligraphy. Though I can read upside down – marvellous learning experience, university – none of the words are decipherable. Neither Tonks nor Mr Dergspruan suffer from my inability.

'Standard contract,' he intones pulling out a mahogany pointer tipped by a small ivory or whalebone goblin's hand to indicate the relevant clauses. 'Sign here,' tapping the contract with the hand, 'here, and here.'

To Mr Dergspruan's dismay, Tonks takes the time to read the enormous document. 'You are not getting my firstborn should we fail to keep this secret,' she declares, scratching out that clause. _Keep what secret?_ 'And I see that paragraph wasn't in the contract Professor Flitwick signed.' The little git behind the desk groans and grumbles that it ought to have been.

'What about theirs?' he inquires expectantly.

'_None_ of our firstborn are at issue,' she returns.

He grumbles a bit further before finally deciding to have her simply sign under that professor's name while muttering about 'bloody wizards.'

'You lot have always been trouble, meddling in things far beyond your piddling comprehension,' he grunts. 'Ever since the house-elves, there's never been a witch or wizard who could be trusted.'

'I think you are forgetting who tried to fool whom here,' Tonks muttered.

'So it's perfectly fine for some daft troll of a wizard to breed a more accommodating sort of goblin, eh?'

Tonks motions to the three of us. 'Do _we_ look like the sort who would do such a thing?'

'No,' he answers. 'But neither did he.' The debate, insofar as Mr Dergspruan is concerned, had just concluded. 'But the Prince wills it so we must obey,' he states tapping the countersigned contract once with the mahogany rod, whereupon it swiftly rolls itself up and vanishes. Hopping off his chair he wanders to the door. 'Well, follow me.'

Ginny mutters a few oaths to which I add a smattering of my own as I assist her from the chair. During the discussion, I had tried to discern whether she had broken a rib or two, but she batted my hand away each time I attempted even a superficial examination. Tonks waits for us by the door with the faintest of grins. 'Nearly there, children.' The fatigued woman beside me considers uttering a few more curses at that but decides against delaying us further.

It's a regrettably long trip down bare torchlit stone staircases to our eventual destination. Ginny shudders as we enter the dark octagonal room, a reaction I know has nothing to do with her injuries. She holds me tighter and seems to have lost about ten years. Tonks and I have to coax her into the room. Other than us, only Mr Dergspruan and another goblin are in the room, standing in the centre. The other goblin holds a book, _The Accidental Tourist_ of all things, in his hands. 'Come on,' Mr Dergspruan bellows (insofar as he is capable), 'there's only five minutes before the Portkey activates.'

The goblin with the book holds it out for us to grasp, or so I realise after Ginny and Tonks latch onto it. For another three minutes we stand around like idiots holding a bloody book until...

_I think I'm going to spew..._

**

* * *

**

Permanent Secretary Babbage's Office, Ministry for Magic, London

---(Babbage's POV)---

The Weasley woman's file makes unpleasant nocturnal reading. So many skeletons rattling in cupboards, all threatening to tumble out now. If it hadn't been for Minister Bones's personal interest in the girl we could have dismissed her application to the Aurors citing mental instability – plenty of witnesses to support that – or that she was simply too recognisable. _The Potter excuse._ We could have kept her safely away from the Ministry, hived her away somewhere, maybe playing Quidditch, being a Healer, a mother, who knows what, and made everyone's life a little easier.

Instead, my bureau is littered with a host of notes from the Haseltoun MLES barracks announcing not only did the two escape the patrols but that they were assisted by a third, which was somewhat expected, a further six operatives from the Dark Arts Response Team are in hospital, _and_ the local plod had managed to irritate the goblins. Would the Wizengamot truly convict me if I turned Minister Perkins into a newt and mistakenly dropped her in a boiling cauldron? (Purely hypothetically, of course.)

Shacklebolt might even start asking questions. Nothing's more frightening in politics than a question to which one's interlocutor already knows the answer. He would begin with something suitably innocuous at first, such as, 'Why do members of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad have Aurors under surveillance?' only to follow it with, 'Why are those MLES members attacking those same Aurors?' We could contrive a reasonable explanation, say that an Auror with a history of mental instability – again, the blessed records from St Mungo's, witnesses from school and Auror training, and last, the secret surveillance transcripts – had gone rogue. She even kidnapped a Muggle and modified his memory to make him believe he was Harry Potter, her lifelong obsession. It might work, especially after the administrative order for Potter's Obliviation has been conveniently misplaced. Or should I say, 'placed under consideration.'

Ah, there's Rutherford. Without the order. _Bugger._

'Where is it, Rutherford,' I demand, certain my fury is evident through my measured tone.

'She's pissed, sir,' he groans excitedly. 'She's sitting in dark corner singing about centaurs and their enormous...'

Hammering my open palms upon my bureau, my subordinate's brief description of Mistress Clarke's folk song repertoire ceases abruptly. Clutching his elbow, we hurry through the Ministry to the Archives wasting no time for idle chit-chat or the flock of inter-office memos that have taken to fluttering about my head.

'Sir...' A glower silences Rutherford immediately. Minister Perkins is drowning in it and seeks to take me with her. I'm going to do my level best to ensure that's not the case.

With those bloody memos still winging about me, I drag my underling to the wellspring of dread. I have always hated the Ministerial Archives ever since I was a ickle clerk in Records. Elspeth Clarke was the Mistress of Rolls then, and no less unpleasant. As were the Archives. Leaving the flock of pink missives behind, we enter the catacombs. The faint glow of the lanterns lighting shelves and cabinets of various woods – oak, teak, mahogany, cherry – provides just enough light to see the occasional spider scutter after silverfish or other spiders, or away from rats, themselves the prey of cats and a few kneazles. Despite the scant illumination, the scrolls and tomes crowding the shelves had yellowed with age, or perhaps it was the Conservation Charms the old crone placed on everything. A few missed kicks at some mewling miscreants later, we stood before the hag herself, tongue lolling in her tan-toothed maw, three-quarters empty bottle clutched firmly to her withered chest, swishing in time with her breathing. When I find out who put her in this state, I shall murder them slowly for encumbering my memory with that image.

'Mistress Clarke, you vile harridan, wake up!'

'Sod off, Blether-breeks!' A swift glower told Rutherford if ever he repeated that moniker he'd be off on the South Georgia penguin census detail quicker than he could say 'inkpot.'

'You wretched harpy, rise from your stupor before I force you from it!' I bellow, holding my wand outstretched.

Feeling far happier in semi-sobriety than under complete detoxification, Mistress Clarke staggers her way back into the vertical plane. 'What do you want, Babbage?' she grunts as she lights the pungent tobacco in her clay pipe.

'Administrative Order XIX-L2/JOS/98/312e,' I hiss in an effort to convey the need for secrecy. Rutherford knows the reference, but not its contents. Let's hope the demented crone can understand subtlety.

'Potter?' _Hell and buggery._ I nod curtly and order Rutherford from the room. 'Just a minute,' she grumbles, spits, and shuffles away. At least she knows where it is.

Wait a moment. Drink and her remembering what that order covers so swiftly. Can't be... Someone must have researched the Arcane Records and found a reference to the order. It must have been that bloody Granger woman again. We'll have to put her under surveillance again, maybe send over a little frightener.

When Mistress Clarke returns with the order, she has an odd look on her face. Snatching the document from her grasp, I perform the decryption charm, scan it line by line, poring over the paper for some indication of tampering, but I see nothing. The page even bears the ministerial watermark. 'It's a copy,' she announces after I'd exhausted my limited knowledge of such matters. 'A very good one, but a facsimile none the less.'

'Who gave you that bottle?' I demand.

'That would be telling.'

'_Who?_' Rather than responding, she let her tongue explore the far reaches of her mouth while her bleary, bloodshot, and jaundiced dark brown eyes stare apathetically into mine. 'I can have you for being drunk on duty,' I warn only to receive a scoffing huff.

'I'm not one of your lackeys, Burblage,' her voice scrapes out. 'Besides, I'm the only one who understands the Archives,' she sneers, 'so try and replace me, you wretched little grindylow.' I feel the point of her sharp claw as she pokes at my chest through four layers of clothing, grimacing in discomfort. The foul creature smirks.

'You're not that irreplaceable,' I protest. 'After all, you've allowed, perhaps even conspired in the theft an arcane document. Not even Minister Bones could overlook such misbehaviour.' Aren't I the kneazle amongst the gnomes?

Mistress Clarke ponders my words for a few moments. Scowling in her struggle to gauge the potency of my threat, she grunts and trundles to her bureau, removing a pewter goblet from one of the drawers. 'I don't think I need to worry so much about Minister Bones's opinion in the matter.' I can feel the indentation of her teeth on my skin as she grins. Buggery.

Emerging from the Archives with the copy of the order in hand (and those sodding memos once more clamouring for attention), I clap a strong arm on Rutherford. I press him into the lift and inform him in no uncertain terms that discussing these events to any other entity will result in an expeditious transfer to the Orkneys. He chunters an affirmation to his shoes. As we travel to the second level, only the anxious shuffling of his feet reveal he's still nearby. It's good to have such able underlings.

Another sight awaits me when I enter Minister Perkins's domain. An expression of disgust reigns on her face as she gazes out the window at the torrential showers Magical Maintenance routinely gives her whenever she seeks a cross breeze. The memos hovering above me, believing their task complete, incinerate themselves to circle me in faint ash. Since the Minister has long been accustomed to this churlish game, some sundry other quandary must be affecting her. 'I know.' The resignation in her voice makes any further explanation unnecessary. She continues none the less. 'The devil himself told me.'

Ah, the Goblin Minister must have informed her about the incident outside of Gringotts's Haseltoun branch. My new information about the order boils away her irritation leaving only distilled panic and a host of oaths behind.

'What of Shacklebolt?' I enquire.

'Nothing so far,' she mutters, stomping to her bureau. 'But it's only a matter of time. Ideas?'

'Why did you have the Haseltoun Magical Law Enforcement Squad chase after those three after that Weasley woman sent the first lot to hospital?' Scolding Madam Perkins has become an annoyingly regular occurrence. 'Couldn't they simply have observed the subjects discreetly?'

Deep blue eyes peer fixedly at her steepled hands. The words linger on her lips before finally crashing to earth. 'It was a Dark Arts Response Team.' Hit wizards. Brilliant. What else will she throw at that woman? 'The Town Council sent them after the local plod found Catesby.'

'And why would the Council do that, Minister?' I reprove.

'_We_ didn't want them to know with whom they were dealing, did _we_?' she reminds me. 'After Catesby, the Council had no idea what they were facing and called out the heavies. Dudson was called in to assist. He left the Council and the team leader with the impression they were dealing with Death Eaters, so the situation isn't entirely irreparable there.'

My eyebrow rises involuntarily. I'm surprised anyone could possibly be that gullible. Though, if they believed they were dealing with Death Eaters, why hadn't they called in the Aurors? When I voice my concerns, Madam Perkins fails or pretends not to notice; sometimes, it's very difficult to discern the difference.

'In any case, the team leader contacted the Office through Dudson saying they had the perfect opportunity to _capture_ Weasley and Tonks.' She places deliberate stress on that word 'capture,' reinforcing her policy shift as if I am as dim as she. 'Six against two,' she insists, 'with the two in an enclosed space. Capture them, modify their memories, send them on some distant assignment – say, Belize – for a few years or simply lose them and all would be perfect.'

Honestly, I can understand the temptation to do something and why Madam Perkins believed the hit wizards. 'But why send in the local plod afterward?'

'Well, seeing six hit wizards pummelled and that café demolished, the Council believed Tonks and Weasley truly _were_ Death Eaters. I think the locals simply became caught up in the chase.' A pause as dangerous as a mother dragon guarding her eggs hangs ominously in the air.

'And?' I finally ask.

'It seems some of the MLES recognised Weasley and Tonks through their foe glasses,' she murmurs to her ink blotter. _Damn._

'Does the Council know?'

The scent of ash and the earlier mental image of a maternally enraged pyropteraped weigh heavily on my thoughts. 'I don't believe so,' she havers, eyes widening as the creaky cogs start to mesh within.

'Just to be sure, we should have the offending members debriefed by a couple loyal Obliviators,' but Perkins shakes her head. We lost those that modified Potter's memory in a spate of Death Eater ambushes shortly after the Ministry shipped him off to that Muggle hospital. The others are so obnoxiously concerned about the moral implications of their work. What happened to loyalty and love of one's community? 'Or send them on a fact-finding mission to New Zealand. You know, somewhere lovely yet distant.'

The Minister ferrets about her bureau for a quill that hadn't been nibbled and gnawed to the nib and scratches out a brief word to the Haseltoun Millies superintendent. The grimace of terrified befuddlement still hasn't left her quavering visage. 'What about the goblins and that bloody woman?'

_Good question._ The wind and rain beating against the window pane give me an idea. I explain to Madam Perkins that the three have no means of leaving Gringotts save through the front entrance. All we would have to do is wait for them to leave goblin territory and they are ours. But the why worries me.

The gates weren't especially well protected by the time they had encountered Catesby. Weasley and Tonks must have suspected that in view of the local plod's distaste for my Minister. Still, those two had favoured rushing to the centre of town and toward the MLES barracks. Did the two women have someone there actively assisting them? Somehow I don't think so. Furthermore, the Gringotts managing director announced the goblin prince had vouchsafed for their safety.

Despite the protection Professor Flitwick's name offers them there, Dergspruan's hospitality won't be longstanding. His hatred of wizardkind is far too old and strong. Indeed, I doubt that it will last the day. So, why would they head there rather than towards one of the gates? What could they secure there, other than funds, that they couldn't anywhere else? Tonks and Weasley's savings from their Auror's wages and Potter's weekly stipend – from what I remember of the latter (the order neglects that point since it was outside of the Department's purview) – aren't large enough to warrant wasting the opportunity to have flown from Haseltoun to who-knows-where. Then there is the question of Headmaster Flitwick. How much does he know?

'Minister, we should have someone watch over the Weasleys' Floo connections.'

For the first time in days, a true smile graces her simple face. 'It's being done as we speak.' Dear me, she's actually beginning to learn.

**

* * *

**

Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, Diagon Alley, London

---(Remus's POV)---

Charmed candlelight provides steady illumination over the sordid details of ministerial corruption as I sit reading the administrative order for Harry's Obliviation in the backroom of the establishment I now call home. The cramped, spiked bureaucratic scrawl reveals the panic of those days despite the precision of the writing itself. Indeed, the scribe was almost too precise.

Unlike many ministerial documents I've had the misfortune to run across during my life, this order is positively disorganised. Sections cover the troubles faced by the Department from the remaining Death Eaters and the loss of so many important members of the magical community, Harry's treatment such as it was, and a brief discussion of his rantings. I'd witnessed only a few of his explosions, and though the potions I'd been taking deadened some of the force and volume of his words, it should have been obvious to me then what the Healers and Ministry officials were pressing us to accept was wrong. Not that I blame Hermione.

The Ministry tended to ignore me – while the executor of Harry's godfather's will, I was a werewolf – and placed all of its considerable weight on her narrow shoulders. Ron was too busy battling with the Healers concerning his sister's care – a task in itself – and coping with the deaths of so many family members to be by Hermione's side all the time. Perkins and her minions always lurked about until an emergency sent Ron away before badgering his girlfriend with queries and entreaties. The Ministry denied Hermione any contact with her parents or anyone else in the world outside of that ward in St Mungo's. Cut off and progressively cut down, it amazes me she resisted so long.

Faced with the Ministry's report on Harry's ranting, it's not surprising Hermione kept his survival a secret from Ginny. Initially, it seemed as if he despised the youngest Weasley, that he blamed her for his state. Perkins and a few pliant Healers made certain that Harry was sufficiently incoherent whenever Hermione visited, a process to which the order refers in veiled terms. The scribe does, however, attempt to legitimise these antics by stressing the mutual danger Harry and Ginny would have put on the Ministry, their families, and themselves had Hermione not been pressurised into agreeing to Perkins and Babbage's scheme.

Ah, Babbage. The little swine has managed to keep his name out of this dossier as much as possible. It will be an incomparable pleasure to let Rita loose upon him when the time comes. One can almost see her mandibles at work as she demolishes the troll's schemes.

We kept our stay in the Archives as brief as possible. A beetle by nature, Rita was terribly skittish about being in an environment so dominated by arachnids, while it was too close to my last metamorphosis not to reel from Mistress Clarke's reek. Once the Quick Quote Quills had performed sterling service transcribing the order, I secreted four copies and the original along with one of the goblets, hiding them within my rolled surcoat. The other goblet I gave to Miss Skeeter in lieu of liquid payment by Galleons and Sickles. For Mistress Clarke, I left a promise to return with two similar goblets should she abide by our arrangement. If the old crone accepts those terms, which I'm certain she will, she'll be bound by a magical contract and will be unable to reveal our deal to Perkins, Babbage, or anyone else.

Sickened by the stench of perspired drink, foul pipe tobacco, and the preserving agents on the collection that reinforced the Conservation Charms, Rita and I left Mistress Clarke to a blessedly egregious hangover – God willing – as we slipped from the Archives into a pair of Magical Maintenance boiler suits hidden in the lift in a satchel of tools by one of our two contacts for the operation. My contact has done very well for us in the past, having furnished us with Minister Bones and Madam Hopkirk's signatures to release the administrative order into our possession. Familiar with the intricacies of the bureaucracy, he's managed to keep Amelia Bones apprised of our needs without compromising the rest of us, saving both her and the rest of us from immediate discovery in case of failure.

I daresay Madam Bones shares her late niece's fondness for Harry, though I doubt it goes so far as the desire for an April-September romance. One never knows, though. Her odd silence in the face of our efforts to recover him is worrisome, even to Hermione. Does she, like Fred, resent Harry for her loss? If he had cared for Susan more, perhaps they would have remained together. Yet it was evident to anyone with eyes that he was far too gone on Ginny by that ill-fated Christmas.

Molly and Arthur thought he was still grieving for Sirius. Harry was, but his gaze wasn't altogether haunted by the death of beloved godfather, my dear friend. There was a fresh pain in his eyes, one which he wasn't able to hide completely behind that wall Occlumency and stubborn guilt had built, whenever he looked at the youngest Weasley. Ron and Hermione were too busy arguing – Hermione in bitter, anxious frustration while Ron persisted in his confused substitute for foreplay – to notice. I wagered with the Twins that when their brother finally clued in we'd need a blizzard to pull that couple apart. As for Ginny, I don't know what had taken hold of her that year. She could talk to Harry, but rarely looked at him straight on unless there were others to distract her. On several occasions, his jaw clenched as he bit back his irritation at her behaviour. I confronted him with my observations, but he baldly lied that it was only the constant throbbing of his scar and nightmares of Sirius that were making him tetchy. The little bastard knew I didn't believe him. He'd grown so accustomed to lying to himself about his feelings by then he could no longer distinguish the difference.

And Minister Bones? She knew the burden her niece had consciously assumed by taking such a prominent position in Harry's camp. In my heart, I doubt Madam Bones condemns Harry for Susan's demise. Though Madam Bones has stayed mute, she has carefully and quietly assisted us when and where possible. That must count for something.

Our other contact, Horace Whitlow, provided us with the Magical Maintenance coveralls. He's Rita's old schoolmate. More importantly, he Magical Maintenance's shop steward. A mixture of Rita's flattery and his animosity towards Minister Perkins secured for us a twenty-minute window after we depart during which it will be impossible to Disapparate from the Ministry. Something about the need 'to reinforce the existing wards against unauthorised egress or ingress.' Perkins's reward for being the chief negotiator of Magical Maintenance's last contract. Arthur loved that story about the month of nightmarish weather they visited upon Fudge's ministry through the enchanted windows, especially as he hadn't had to experience any of it himself.

Invisible in the commonplace orange boiler suits despite the clanging satchel that held our robes, we travelled leisurely through the corridors. The work order that protruded from my chest pocket would be enough to dissuade any officious prat who sought to stop our progress. Blithely wandering through Level Two, we visited Kingsley Shacklebolt's empty office. Ostensibly, we were there to repair the inflammability ward on a wall lamp. Fenchurch, the old git, stopped us at Kingsley's door. Knowing full well who we were and why we were there, he peered intently at our work order through his bifocal foe spectacles before permitting us to proceed. Rita, in a moment of sheer inspiration, trod on his foot and elbowed him in the midst of apologising for her first offence. As he left us in a wake of curses, I hid the original of the administrative order for Harry's Obliviation in Kingsley's filing cabinet, having furnished the Archives with a reasonable Quick Quotes Quill-rendered facsimile.

The fates for the other four copies were already arranged. I kept one. Ron and Hermione, Fred and Angelina, and Tonks will each receive a copy. I'd agreed to share mine with Miss Skeeter in accordance with the terms of our contract. Ron and Hermione will reserve theirs for Harry and Ginny if and when they arrive. The other two, the ones that sent me on this dreadful expedition, will use theirs to prepare the solicitors once Harry regains his memory. Tonks is our second reserve after Kingsley. She will likely keep her copy at Gringotts.

We doffed the coveralls at our Apparition point inside a school that had closed for the night in favour of the Muggle clothes hidden underneath, we lost any potential minders in the Underground. Finally above ground, Rita and I strolled – well apart, I must stress – the London pavement taking a circuitous route to Diagon Alley.

I hate to admit it, but Rita made a disturbingly convincing Muggle. She even dressed sensibly rather than audaciously in court shoes and a proper dress suit. The year-long probation Hermione gave her seems to have had some positive effect after all. Yet Rita's eyes still leapt from their sockets upon learning about Harry's survival. I can tell she desired to publish that information to the waiting world, but our magical contract constrained her. Even so, I was tempted to Obliviate her to secure her silence. Pity that it would have caused more problems than it would have solved.

Rita's grey jacket and skirt were jovial when next to my sombre black suit. I seem to have just attended a funeral, or a disinterment. Scanning the order as the Quills scratched their way along the rolls of parchment, I may as well have. Seated alone in the backroom of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes while Fred and his assistant – Dennis Creevey of all people – are joyfully tormenting the clientele with new products. From the screams and squeals of delight, Fred's creative energies are stronger than ever. This exultant atmosphere sweetly counters the wickedness written within the order.

I had thought Hermione had told me all of the circumstances surrounding Harry's Obliviation, but she couldn't have been aware of what's in the Ministry's files. I had witnessed many varieties of bureaucratic perfidy performed within England in my time, but Fudge and his cronies surpassed the folly of the Ministry during Voldemort's first rising. Fudge was not _entirely_ at fault for the corruption bred during his administration, though he was guilty of allowing it to fester and propagate. Such is the lot of government in times of restoration. Minister Bones is having more success in restraining most of the ambitious power-seekers, but some – like Perkins, inherited from the old administration – have slipped through. Much as Rita and I had through the Ministry.

Fortunately for Harry and all who love him, Hermione's time with he and Ron gave her a healthy suspicion of authority. Had she not, Ginny would never have found him and he would likely have been dead either from complications in hospital or a post-release 'accident,' such as forgetting to hold onto broomstick on his ride home. Perkins may have allowed him a sort of half-life. If Harry was lucky, he might have been living in some dreadful council flat on a dismal estate somewhere, Salford maybe. Hermione's involvement, along with the Weasley name and a sadly pre-occupied Professor Flitwick, gave Harry a happier past and the chance of a respectable future, his parents' legacy safely held for his use rather than the Ministry's.

Fred comes in sporting a devilish grin at his cleverness. When he sees the reading material before me, the smirk becomes a grimace. Nausea washes across his face. 'Did you have to bring _that_ down here?' he moans. For a day – it feels like an eternity – I've been reading this drivel, seeking to make sense of the wickedness therein, but all I see are dark hearts and fouler minds.

'What do you have against Harry anyway?' I heard the tale, but it never made much sense to me. Molly died protecting her family while arguing with Harry which one ought to go through the Floo first. Harry collapsed completely after that, having lost the only maternal figure he'd ever known. She was one of the few remaining connections he had with the wizarding side of his family, Lily having been the daughter of that accountant second cousin the Weasleys never mentioned. Ginny was kept ignorant of that piece of the family drama, though it's doubtful she would have repudiated Harry after learning she was his second cousin who knows how many times removed, especially considering how quickly Harry recovered from the realisation. He'd never known how closely related wizarding families could be until his fifth year when Sirius described the Black family's sordid history.

Fred gathers the strength to answer. 'He'd always brought misfortune on the Weasley women, whether it was Ginny, Mum, or Hermione.' My brow furrows as I seek to divine his reasoning. 'Because of Harry, Malfoy slipped Ginny the Great Git's diary. Harry perpetually sent Mum into a tizzy about how dreadful he was being treated by the Dursleys and then by acting like a right prat to her since his fifth year after she'd loved him like one of her own.' All true, all very true, yet it's surprising he avoids the obvious explanation. Perhaps it's still too painful a memory to relive. 'Hermione – whatever her faults – always did what she thought was best for him. Saved him from that Cho's evil clutches, first off.' I remember Cho Chang well from when I was a professor at Hogwarts. She was a very nice and fairly bright girl. 'OK, she were pretty and, to be honest, a decent Quidditch player, but compared to Ginny...'

'I thought you said Harry was wrong for Ginny.'

Fred ignores my comment. 'Harry was responsible for that brief rift between Mum and Hermione in our, my sixth year. Mum thought Hermione was playing with ickle Harrykins heart, the poor sod.' He stands before me now, eyes squinting and mouth drawn from the stress of reliving the memories of those days. 'And,' he leans towards me, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, 'he was the cause of Hermione's miscarriage.'

My God, she only recently told me she was pregnant. 'She hasn't...'

'It was about four years ago, when Ron and Hermione separated.' That explains quite a bit, though why they had kept this from me, I've no idea. 'Ginny demanded that Ange and I not tell anyone. We weren't supposed to know, either.'

'Harry never intended any of that, you know.'

'Yet...' _Yet._ If Harry hadn't delayed that night, Molly would still be with us, with who knows how many other Weasleys. Arthur might have survived to become a junior minister, Bill and Fleur might be plaguing Europe with a horde of fair-haired heartbreakers. Charlie might even have made it back from Romania that fateful year. And George might be here still inventing alongside his brother, the Twins against the Filches and Umbridges of the world, raining chaos upon the self-righteous and humourless. As it should have been...

'You remember how Ginny was...'

The shelves distract Fred for a moment as he recalls the past. He collects some fresh stock for the front that he carefully places on my table. 'Better than most, if you remember.' Hermione had told me of the scene at St Mungo's after Harry's funeral. 'She could barely speak to him after her first year for fear of what he thought of her. Never even thought of asking her to the Yule Ball after Cho turned him down. Not to say she would have gone back on going with Neville any road, just that it would have been thoughtful for him to have considered her, right? And how she defended and supported him in her fourth year. She didn't have to, did she?' Though I dislike to think it, I'm becoming increasingly appalled by the indifference of my friend's son. Fred pulls up a stool and sits across from me. 'So, what's in there will improve my opinion of him?'

'It might make you more sympathetic.'

'Ange and I asked you to find that didn't we?' he grumbles tapping the scroll. 'I'm not so daft as you obviously think.' He glares straight into my eyes daring me to contradict him. 'Remus, for years I believed Harry was an arrogant little shit who thought he had a monopoly on grief. I despised him for how he blamed himself for Mum's death, how he scurried away from Ron and Ginny like he was the only one suffering.' His eyes still fixed me to my stool. The intensity of his gaze, usually so fleeting as it sought targets for barbs and pranks or avenues of escape, was discomfiting, if not frightening. 'Not that I _didn't_ blame him myself. He could have Flooed from Grimmauld Place when Mum told him. Perhaps she would have died a little sooner. He should have simply forced her to go, but she never would have allowed that.' He smirks at the memory of his mother's iron resolve.

Grumbling, he grabs the merchandise from the table. 'I know he wanted Mum to leave before him that day. Maybe by that point he thought only the Great Git could kill him.' He can no longer look me in the eye as his face reddens in anger at the memory. The colour slowly fades and he breathes a heavy sigh. 'But Mum would never leave one of her kids behind, no matter how much Harry fought with her. Like any good mum she could be a fool where her children were concerned.' His steps are leaden as he ventures back out to the front. 'At least he had the balls to tell Dad what happened.'

With that he leaves me alone with my own unhappy reminiscences and dreams of a world in which other paths had been taken. Neither Molly nor Fred knew of the prophecy. Even if they had, it's unlikely anything would have changed. Though as any teenager, Harry had grown to resent Molly's mothering, he never would have willingly left her side. His collapse after her death was complete. Only the deaths of Ron, Hermione, or Ginny would have affected him more then. Confronting Ginny's grief forced Harry back into the present and gave him the desire to train harder. By the end, he was willing to die or even kill to protect the Weasleys though Death continued to devour them. Though Death feasted on his soul until there was nothing left save the faintest hope at least one member of his adopted family would survive the war.

In the end, Harry believed he could no longer even rely on that pale dream. He died thinking he had lost everything and everyone, that he was once again and forever alone, unloved, and cursed.

Is it right to thrust that world, _our_ world back on him?

**

* * *

**

Gringotts, Diagon Alley, London

---(Ron's POV)---

Two hours late.

Days like these drive a man to drink. Then again, after last night...

Oh, God, how things've gone wrong. How were we to know back then, so many years ago, how things would turn out? Ginny was barely ten weeks old the first time Harry and his mum defeated You-Know-Who. (OK, Voldemort. _Shudder._ Satisfied?) Now she's ready to take on the world for that damn fool.

Harry. Who would have thought twelve years ago on that train to Hogwarts what a curse he'd bring on our family. Then, we were nine. What are we going to do with Ginny? Her falling for Harry was adorable when she was eleven, but it rapidly became a bloody curse. By then, though, supporting Harry was a Weasley tradition – the sole one I'd started, if you exclude Fred and George introducing me – one that I thought the Department of Mysteries and Harry's prattish behaviour that year had cured.

I should've realised that second year, when the elder Malfoy planted Riddle's diary for Ginny to find, being near Harry was dangerous. Or our fifth year when Harry saw that snake attack Dad. Fred and George knew. I remained pig-ignorant, up until the end.

No, that's unfair. It's not his fault, really.

I look down at my arms and swear that I can see the marks from the brain through my robes and clothes. All those bloody potions I'd taken in the Infirmary after the night Sirius died could only work so well. The occasional uncharacteristic thought burrows its way through now and then. Like when I broke my hand on the door jamb after Hermione told me about Harry...

What a cock-up.

Don't get me wrong. It was great seeing Harry again. Despite what had been done to him – what we'd done to him – he hadn't changed much. More relaxed, carefree maybe. Even Fred thought so. If _he_ approves of Harry, there may be some hope. Yet since Ginny brought Harry to London, everything's gone pear-shaped. Hermione's on edge, though she won't say why. Ange nearly murdered Fred. (According to Fred; she probably just gave him a good bollocking.)

What we'd done to them. What _I_'d done to them. To Harry, to Ginny... and to Hermione.

But then we were three. (Won't bother to count Percy. He'd buggered off to God knows where, the git.) Not that any of us were able to deal with much of anything at the time. Fred was no longer the gregarious sort. Lee Jordan and Dennis Creevey kept him out of the shop after he nearly bit the head off of some student. That left him having to muddle through the family's affairs with me and a potion-addled Remus. Not that either of them was around much. Remus was in hospital more often than not. Fred was busy with the funeral arrangements, absolutely refusing to have anyone save Ange help him. Ginny, of course, was in and out of consciousness. Leaving me to deal with the solicitors, the Ministry, the Healers, and Harry.

Though in truth, it was Hermione who was burdened with Harry's problems. And Ginny's. The Ministry had embarked on a campaign of divide and conquer. Flinging difficulties with Dad's pension my way, as well as with the legacies of the rest of the family, and some of our friends, all requiring urgent meetings with the solicitors, Gringotts, that shit Perkins, and with other little pricks from the Ministry. Keeping me away from Hermione, and her away from her family.

'The importance of keeping the wizarding community's secrets safe from the Muggles,' was their excuse. Being family, that didn't matter, but the Ministry officials didn't listen, no matter how much she begged them. They seemed congenial when I was around, not that I trusted them. But something would always come up to drag me away...

Hermione was drowning in it by the end. She was having no success in getting the Healers to decrease the doses they gave Ginny. They inundated her with reports on Death Eater attacks and pleas to accept the Ministry's scheme for Harry. She was in tears when she'd told me what they'd planned. She wanted to wait, at least until he was cogent. But the pressure was simply too great. I couldn't bear what was being done to her, and Harry didn't seem likely to recover. In the end, I begged her to accept the Ministry's findings, if only for her own sanity. Yet later I hadn't the courage to stand by her when she discovered all of St Mungo's and the Ministry's lies.

We lost our baby... How could I have done that to Hermione? And our child. To this day, I don't know why I stormed out of our flat. I reckon I couldn't bear being reminded of my complicity in Harry's 'surrogate death,' as Remus terms it. It wasn't Hermione I was furious with, but me.

Now we're right back where we started.

So here I sit in a private office at Gringotts reading a copy of the Ministry's secret file on Harry's 'treatment' growing sicker with each and every page. After I re-read each passage for the fourth time. I thought Remus said he'd decoded this... The report's as unintelligible as ever. The Ministry must employ a special committee of goblin and wizarding solicitors to write this rubbish.

Remus rang early this morning – bloody fellytones – about the order without being to direct. Needless to say, at six in the morning with a pregnant wife (sleep being at a dreadful premium), a bit of directness wouldn't have hurt, but knowing him it must have been an emergency. We met at a coffee bar in Hammersmith, far enough from anything to dissuade any ministerial interest, where we obliquely discussed several issues involving the Wizarding Wheezes. Intellectual property rights and the like, as if I know anything about that bollocks. During which he passed me the dossier now before me, affixed to which was one of those Muggle sticky-notes reminding me to keep it safe. Scanning the first page after returning home and seeing the name 'POTTER' I immediately knew why.

Yet the strange occurrences for the day didn't end there. Reading the report – order, whatever – I was puzzled for what to do. I mean, I was certainly going to put it into my and Hermione's vault at Gringotts. Then the message from Tonks came, spat up from that silly small cauldron on the bureau. Ginny was with her in Edinburgh, in Haseltoun, and with Harry. No bad news there, except...

Except Tonks reported that Ginny and Harry had run-ins with three gits who must have been sent by that prat Perkins. Tonks's own concerns of further encounters were evident in the short missive. Just then, Hermione woke calling my name. Taking this as an omen – she's never been able to understand my superstitious ways – I rushed to the bed in a panic. She was mildly distraught as well, though one would have to know her well to tell. A slight downward twist at the right corner of her mouth. When she saw the anxiety on my face and what I was holding, her concern became more apparent. We conferred and decided to contact Kingsley since neither of us wanted to risk the baby and I was far too recognisable – we are third in the League, you know – to swan off to Haseltoun. Besides, if I didn't attend today's practice, the manager would shunt me off to the reserves. And, to be honest, I let my worries about losing them again take precedence over the need for discretion or the likelihood Ginny would again shun us.

Shacklebolt was furious that Ginny hadn't sought to inform him that Harry was with her. 'Indiscreet, unsafe, insane,' scribbled in a shaky hand was all he could manage other than an order to Apparate immediately to the Ministry ('Ministry, NOW.'). It's unnerving when someone as unflappable and erudite as Kingsley can only respond in such a curt fashion.

When I arrived, he thrust a book in my hand and ordered me to do whatever it took – beg, plead, whatever – to convince Ginny to leave Harry with Tonks for the time being. Ginny was to _discreetly_ return to their flat to await a disciplinary hearing. As I began to protest, he assured me the hearing was merely a formality and that the worst she'd receive would be a desk job at Auror HQ. He could tell I didn't believe him, but he refused to accept my whinging about Quidditch practice or my insistence that she'd find him more convincing these days. Or that since he already knew about Harry, why couldn't he go? After his ten-minute explanation how Fidelius Charms operate (you see if your eyes don't cross after someone tells you, 'Just because I know where he is doesn't mean that I know where he is,' several times), I resolved to take his word for it and was thrust northward. In the end, Tonks's sedative and Harry's illness rendered my worries and Kingsley's planning academic. I wonder how Kingsley's taking it...

Yet the day's strangeness didn't end there. Midway through a scrimmage – during which I made several spectacular saves and only let in one shot – I was called down for an urgent message. Hughes, the manager, wasn't well pleased. _Back to being a substitute,_ his glare declared. The prick. The messenger, however, looked impressed, which could only mean disaster.

It was only a standard parchment envelope with florid green writing with the Hogwarts crest emblazoned on the purple wax seal. Purple seal… I tossed a couple Galleons to the lad and hastily carried the letter into the changing rooms as if it was a Howler sent by Mum. I needn't have worried so, as Professor Flitwick merely informed me that I was to meet Ginny, Harry, and Tonks at Gringotts, inconspicuously sneak them to somewhere safe, and win the League Cup single-handed. OK, so that last request was a bit of a stretch, but not far off. Ginny's likely still pissed about Kingsley finding out. There's nothing I need less than further aggro from my not-so-little sister after a six-hour Quidditch practice and only two hours of sleep. That said, it will be good to see her again, especially after how distant we've become.

What a family we Weasleys are these days. Before, we couldn't be separated despite how large a brood we were, excepting that git Percy, of course. Though Charlie was in Romania and Bill in Egypt, the family always managed to keep in touch, always close. Now, though, we're separated only by a stretch of road or rail but see each other only irregularly. Ginny hasn't really visited us in years. Fred only comes because Angelina insists, and they only come on alternate Christmases, spending time with her family the other times. Hermione's not taking it well at all. You'd think being an only child, and a swotty one at that, that she'd be used to being alone. But losing Ginny nearly sent her round the twist. Hermione knows she tends to mother Ginny now and then, but she can't help feeling protective of her sister-in-law after what happened in our seventh year. Their absence is driving me mad, as well.

As I slowly fall asleep in this private office with my cure for insomnia open before me, I reflect on the bizarre influence our family name now holds over the wizarding world. Long ago, I wondered what Harry must have felt like, especially in those early years before he'd truly grown accustomed to the prevailing sense of idiocy that surrounded him from being the Boy-Who-Lived. I now know why he _despised_ the attention, the fawning. I just want to go home, hug my wife and child-to-be, spend time with them, and forget the rest of the world. But nothing's ever so simple.

Still, there are some benefits. Such as being able to wait in an office rather than out in the open, and receiving the sincere regrets of a senior manager of Gringotts. All Bill's doing, really. Those years of curse-breaking in Egypt and the rest of the Near East, filling the coffers of Gringotts with gold and furthering the bank's own schemes for protecting its vaults. He was one of the foremost in the field, though he never let on.

I admit, in spite of Bill's coaching – nagging, really – of how to behave around goblins, I was dead nervous when the Managing Director of all people came to greet me. He politely held out his hand with a welcoming toothy sneer I assume was meant to put me at ease. Graciously – I hope – I bowed and shook his claw, trying all the while to still the discomfort as his long fingers encircled my hand for the second time. Placing a small but firm palm on my lower back, he guided me gravely to the back offices of the senior management. At first I was terrified that Professor Flitwick was unable to convince Gringotts to accept Tonks and Ginny's scheme. Then I panicked that they were going to renounce the terms of my and Hermione's mortgage. I had forgotten how odd the day had already been.

'Mr Weasley,' the Managing Director Fogruk snarled after shutting the door to the empty office behind him. I'd never seen a goblin so embarrassed before, and I hope never to see another in such a state again. 'I offer my most sincere apology for Director Dergspruan's rudeness.' If goblins could blush, his face would be bright red. The snorting as well as his twitching ears, squinting eyes, and gnashing teeth made an even worse sight. 'Had we known about that second contract earlier, it would never have been inflicted upon your family.' I, of course, had no idea what he meant.

For any goblin, the act of acknowledging a mistake to a wizard is tantamount to an admission of servitude. Bill taught me that important lesson. If wasn't for him and his work for Gringotts over the years, I'm certain I never would have heard about Dergspruan's machinations, Professor Flitwick or not. I duly accepted the Managing Director's regrets with the proper dignity, wincing as I lower myself onto knees sore from hours of Quidditch practice to shake his claw and address him being to being. 'I am humbled by your honesty, sir.' I must remember to find Hagrid's recipe for treacle and send that little worm Dergspruan a batch.

I'm reminded of Harry version of how Hermione used the centaurs to dispense with Umbridge that fateful day. It was the summer before our sixth year and we'd recently received our OWLs. A hideous bit of summer reading that was. Sick of seeing her go off on one of her self-righteous tirades about how we _ought_ to have paid more attention in class if we'd wanted more bloody OWLs, and worried that I might forget how fond I was – and am (married her, didn't I?) – of her, he brought up the centaurs. 'Yes,' he said arching his brow, 'and who was it who forgot how proud centaurs are?'

I've only seen Hermione that discomfited four times in my life as she suddenly remembered about needing to find Ginny for something. Part of me wanted to grin with him while another urged me to knock that smirk off his smug git face. My opinion of him didn't improve when he gave me a shove. 'Well, go on then,' he chortled, nodding in the direction she'd scarpered. My ears burned with the realisation of how obvious my affection for Hermione was. Still, it took the threat of her spending Christmas with Viktor that finally prompted me to act. (Upon reflection, I'm happy to say Hermione tricked me into that, especially after _that_ Christmas.)

Thinking back on how Hermione ridded us of that pustule reminds me I've no idea how to sneak the four of us out of here. And no secure means of contacting anyone who might be able to help. _Bugger._ I wonder if the Managing Director has any ideas. Speak of the pointy-eared angel...

Director Fogruk re-enters the office with a pair of disgruntled underlings trailing behind. 'Mr Weasley, being that _humans_, even those so cognizant of our ways as you, tend to forget certain necessities of our trade, I've taken the liberty of arranging a safe means of transport.' Well, I understood the last bit. I think.

'And what might that be?' I enquire.

'How would you feel about advertising our new education savings account for young parents?' My stomach plummets to my kidneys and considers going further.

'Er...'

'We've run it through your club,' he announces with a new toothy grimace that I suspect is intended as an encouraging smile. 'They _loved_ the idea.' I'm sure they did.

'Now...'

'This isn't _gratis_, Mr Weasley,' he adds ostentatiously, index claw in air. 'No, no. You will receive the going rate,' a pittance, 'as well as a five hundred Galleon,' here he fails to suppress a shudder, 'initial investment in your son or daughter's plan.' Slapping his hands loudly behind his back he awaits my decision. 'Hmm?' Not very patiently, obviously.

'How will this help us leave?'

I never thought I'd ever compare a goblin to Hermione, or _vice versa_, but the way he rolls his eyes... 'Because,' biting off an insult just in time, 'we've arranged a press conference.' During which the rest might escape unseen.

'Are you sure this will work?' It has been five years since Voldemort's fall and I was in the first seven only four times last year, despite performing better than Rathbone, our starting Keeper, each time. (_Sodding manager._)

And that stern glower... I always thought Mum learned that particular talent from Nan, or Professor McGonagall. Well, it might work.

'I still want to see them beforehand,' I demand.

'They should be arriving forthwith,' Fogruk grins. His usual scowling self is much easier to stomach. The two underlings usher the three into the office.

Tonks comes in first, calmly but her robes are askew and certainly not in accordance with the MR&R (Ministry Rules and Regulations). She smiles broadly none the less, unsettling me even more. Ginny and Harry follow next. The way they're glaring at each other reveals they're in the midst of an argument though since she's consented to his arm resting along her side and he her arm across his shoulders, it mustn't be a serious one.

'You really should let me examine you,' Harry insists. 'I do have a first aid certificate.'

'We'll wait until we see Hermione,' Ginny grumbles.

'Ginny,' Tonks pleads, sick of the sniping, 'just let him look. What could it hurt?'

'Me,' my sister quips, 'a lot.'

Time to be the concerned brother. 'OK, what happened?' A faint cough reminds all of us that Director Fogruk is still in the room.

'Briefly,' he grunts gazing at his pocket watch, 'these two ladies had another run-in with the law.' Groaning at my goggle-eyed and gormless reaction, he continues. 'And Miss Weasley here seems to have broken a rib. Or two. Can we get a move on?'

Fogruk merely shrugs as we gaze at him in complete disbelief. 'Well, you lot want to leave, don't you?'

Very well. On with the dog and pony show...

**

* * *

A/N: Hermione and Ginny will appear in the next chapter, ****The Beasting**. Hermione and Ginny will appear in the next chapter, .**

* * *

Q & A with the befuddled writer - please note that if I haven't responded to your review, the only reason is that my mind is completely addled. Permanently. Sorry about that. And now, in reverse order received...**

To **japanesejew**, I checked the chapters (8, 12, 15) you mentioned to see what might be wrong (admittedly I just scanned them, rather than go through them thoroughly), but they seem to be ok. If you still find them to be a problem, please contact me again and I'll give them a thorough going over.

To **Santa Claus**, sorry about the confusion I've caused. (For a brief, but occasionally outdated look at British slang, check out "The Best of British" online), which covers a fair array of mostly English slang. Some Scots slang slipped into one chapter, such as "glaikit" which means daft or dim (check out "ScotSpeak" online). "Prat" generally means "idiot" or "childish idiot." A Permanent (Under)Secretary (of State) --or Permanent Secretary --is the seniormost civil servant within a government department; in other words, the one who usually runs things and truly knows what's going on. A minister generally is assisted by a private secretary who keeps the minister in line while the Permanent Secretary is busy running the department. The old British show "Yes, Minister" offers a good overview of the British government, and is quite funny as well!

To **Naitch03**, thanks for enjoying the story!

To **Elizabeth**, I hope I've answered the questions of whether Harry's still a squib or not so far, and I hope you're still reading.

To **Madam Whitbrook**, many people have complained about the all-too-quickly switches in POV and all I can write is that you're likely correct. What works fine in the writer's mind doesn't always transfer nearly so well onto the page, especially if the intervening connections (the ability of the author to write well) aren't that good. In later chapters, I've tried to make the space between shifts in POV longer (between 1,000-2,000 words) so readers get various sides of a story or to shift locales to advance the plot, which hopefully makes the read a little easier. I apologise for the failings before (and possibly since), and I hope you are continuing to read this story.

To **knbnnate**, thank you very much!


	19. The Beasting

**A/N:** Strong **R** for this chapter to be careful. Nope, no madly erotic sex scenes, just unpleasantness. First off, I recommend you re-read the previous chapter before beginning this one, as that part of the story has likely changed quite a bit since you last read it. (Sorry about that.) A _beasting_ is a punishment, much like this chapter was to write. My apologies for taking so long to update, and thanks to those who've reviewed.

**There and Back Again Lane **

Ch.19 – The Beasting

_Mors janua vitae. _('Death is the gate of everlasting life.')

**

* * *

**

Ron and Hermione's Muggle flat, London

---(Hermione's POV)---

They arrive in dribs and drabs.

Ron first, Apparating with the snap of a Muggle Christmas cracker. He quickly embraces me before he thrusts some dossier into my hands and launches into the day's events in a rush as he trundles about the flat, grabbing the odd item and tossing them blindly into cupboards, bureaux, or drawers. What other habits has he half-learned from me? I am barely able to stifle an outright guffaw at his peculiar behaviour when Tonks appears. She's as flustered as he is, mumbling about having to contact someone named Sunita as well as Mr Shacklebolt. Seeing the manila folder in my grasp, she ushers me into the kitchen and orders me to read it – or at the very least the one page précis – before the other two arrive. Then I should I hide it. Seizing the apron as she leaves the room, I sit myself down at the counter for a light read.

Oh dear.

Just then, Ron comes in. He sees the apron but not the document. 'You're not going to bake it, are you?' he asks incredulously, perhaps facetiously though with that grimace sometimes it's hard to tell. One glower is enough to silence him.

'How much of this did you get through?'

'A quarter,' he swears, ears reddening, shoving his hands into the pockets of his robes. 'Maybe an eighth,' he mutters, shrugging a little.

'I don't blame you,' I murmur sweetly. '_This_ would put Binns to rest.'

A heavy knock at the door announces Ginny and Harry's arrival. Both are in fine form as they tell off Tonks for leaving them to their own devices.

'What were you doing, leaving us at that cab rank?' Ginny bellows. Her voice is remarkably like her mother's when she does that.

'The least you could've done is make sure she arrived here safely,' Harry growls. What's happened to Ginny?

Correctly interpreting my anxious glare, Ron splutters. 'She may have a broken rib.' _What?_ 'They didn't tell me how it happened,' he adds as my right eye begins to squint with rage. Hiding the dossier within the apron, I storm through to the sitting room. The three of them are standing there in mid-argument. Tonks has her hands out in supplication, an aggrieved look on her face. I must've caught her before she had the chance to explain. Ginny's scowling at her mentor, hanging onto Harry with one arm and to her ribs with the other, hunched over slightly. The arm around Harry clutches his shoulder involuntarily each time she winces, although she glowers at his worried glances. That's what strikes me most about Harry, just how concerned he is about her.

Noting my arrival, the three peer at me. Happily, they all seem pleased to see me. Tonks appears relieved if not saved, using my interruption to swiftly Apparate out of Ginny's hexing range. My sister-in-law gave me a small but agonised smile as well before glaring at where Tonks had stood seconds earlier. Continuing to peer nervously at Ginny, Harry grins uneasily. I wonder what she might have told him about Ron and me.

With Tonks's Disapparation, he releases Ginny as she stubbornly makes her towards me. Ron distracts him with an offer of a butterbeer that Harry accepts with a quizzical look. I don't know whether Ron's just being the good host or if he's trying to trigger some further memories in our friend. Either way, Harry seems a little more comfortable in our presence.

'He doesn't seem to have gone off you,' I whisper, guiding her towards the nursery. She girns murderously at me, though I detect a smirk lurking underneath. Even so, she refuses to speak until the door is closed.

'God, he can be such a prat at times,' she finally mutters. '"Let me examine you," he says, like we're playing Healer or something,' she grouses slumping gently onto the rocker next to the pram. She frowns at the bland walls. 'When are you going to get my oaf of a brother to paint these bloody walls?'

A scowling remonstrance silences her as I perform my own examination. 'Harry's just concerned about you,' I chide, brandishing my wand at the offending rib. 'I hear you've been doing the same for him.' I can feel the intensity of the glare as I secrete my wand up my sleeve. 'As for the paint,' I gaze directly into those brown eyes, reddened from missed sleep and tears, 'we're expecting you and Fred to help.' Ginny fidgets a little, as she ponders an excuse that's strangely evading her. 'Unless you're doing some expecting of your own...' I probe.

The scandalised expression reveals such isn't the case. The Auror's life doesn't tend to permit children in one's twenties. Ginny's been rather leery of discussing being a mother for a few years now, not that that's a topic I'd willingly bring up with her in any case. Once she recovers from the shock, she blusters. 'What about Ange?' she asks with a sly grin. 'Why's she allowed to skive off?'

'Quidditch,' I admit. 'Champions League games in America.'

Ginny shakes her head in resignation. 'I knew I chose the wrong career.'

I'm glad she's taking my request with such good grace. And terrified that my next question will cause another explosion. Here goes. I struggle to look her in the eye. 'So, er, what have you told Harry?'

She fixes me with a Gorgon's stare. 'He knows about the Empathy Charm.' _Ah._ Unconsciously, my brow furrows in puzzlement, but my mouth is impassive, giving me away. 'Thought you knew,' is all she says as she shakes her head free of our sins of omission.

'How did he find out?'

'He's beginning to recollect events through dreams,' she replies while stretching to test my handiwork. Should I be insulted?

'Do the memories always provoke such a violent reaction?'

Her face contorts with worry before she's able to reassert self-control, her eyes finding the door to her right before searching the floor. 'Only when they're thrust upon him,' she mutters. An awkward lull develops in our conversation, threatening the fragile rapport we'd created thus far. 'He knows a bit about the Fidelius Charm placed on him,' she divulges, 'that it's connected with why he can't remember.'

I was wondering when that particular viper would rear its horrible little head.

'Did you tell anyone else that I was living with Harry?' she enquires sharply.

And then there's the Basilisk…

'Er, Ginny, there's something Ron and I have been meaning to discuss with you.' Her jaw once more sets firmly with George-like determination, those soft, kind brown eyes hardening into oak, her brow creases with barely concealed fury. I move back a few paces in case the worst happens, turning my back to her defensively, peering back at her over my shoulder. 'Do you recall the night you Flooed us about encountering Harry outside The Leaky Cauldron?'

She offers a barely perceptible nod.

'I hadn't asked you there to berate you about what happened between you and Neville,' I begin cautiously. 'Ron and I'd just learned that morning that Perkins had placed our Floo under surveillance.' Her jaw slackens and her eyes widen. Flustered by her reaction, I move back to her. 'I had wanted to tell you first off, but when you told me what had transpired between you two, I…' am unable to continue as she blanches. Some colour returns to her cheeks, but not for the best. 'I'm sorry,' I plead, trying to console her.

But she brushes quickly past me, running…

* * *

---(Ginny's POV)---

I fling myself into the toilet, locking the door with a spell so Harry can't follow me inside, though I wonder why he would now. Somehow I reach the loo before retching. Blood's pounding in my ears, yet through it I hear another pounding answered by arguing. A female voice calls to me but I'm too busy with a rapid succession of dry heaves to respond properly. Then the wailing begins.

Vaguely I realise a woman's entered the room, the faint trail of scent wafting its way through the stench of my spew. A hand rests gently on my back as she flushes away the reminder of my sins. 'Ginny, it's not your fault,' the voice explains. _Then whose fault is it?_ 'You didn't know; we should have told you.' Perhaps you should have, but it doesn't matter now. Nothing matters now. 'Harry's still here for you,' Hermione declares, 'though Ron had to dissuade him from breaking down the door.' She smiles briefly but sweetly. 'Harry doesn't, _we_ don't blame you for whatever it is you think you did.'

_But he doesn't know all that I have done, does he?_ Only now does everything make sense. I wish it didn't.

* * *

He returned four years ago. _Tom._

It was during my first year of Auror training. An escape and evasion exercise in which all of us apprentices, sent wandless into the countryside, were inevitably captured and subjected to interrogation. While the training staff made it as realistic as they could, the experience could never match the truth. They treated us a little roughly, disorientating us, weakening our wills as well as our bodies. We were humiliated as a group then individually. Sent for private interviews, our captors ordered us to strip to their jeers and taunts, as well as the occasional prod by a truncheon or wand. Dressed in rough linen sacks, we looked like house-elves, albeit very disobedient or unfortunate ones, our bruises almost black. So much for introductions...

Once in the camp, they subjected us to a wide array of mistreatment, all precisely monitored, regulated, and enacted. Professor Snape would have tugged a greasy forelock in admiration. Even Filch might have finally been satisfied by the handling some of us received. The training staff performed the Unforgivables on us, including mock Killing Curses. Convincingly, I must add, until one sees a flash of red instead of green. Not that the Enervation that immediately followed was much easier. Several strong apprentices were invalided out for health reasons, to have their memories altered. The staff administered Veritaserum to us, putting those who cracked on display before us as to shamefacedly reveal parts of the secrets we were meant to keep. We couldn't sleep, whether from the song of nearby Augureys or the screams of our fellow apprentices, I've no idea. I don't know how Tonks could have undergone this and kept her chipper demeanour. One by one, we broke until only I remained. Of course, I didn't know that.

I couldn't remember how many days had passed since my capture. It might have been a week, a month, or possibly a few days. All I knew was that my limbs had lost any sensation but for an all-encompassing agony that coursed through every cell of my being. I was weak, starving, raving. Visions of Luna screaming plagued me. _I saw it all,_ yet I'd seen nothing. At my weakest, Tom came.

It was during one of the many interrogation sessions. The all-too-bright white room scarred eyes that had grown accustomed to being covered in sackcloth. There was space enough for a heavy, scarred oak table that had been bolted to the rough stone floor and two free-moving matching chairs. An arclight burned far too high for my manacled hands to reach, it's buzzing falling in tune with that in my head. I had the vaguest notion they scheduled these meetings at odd times to muddy my sense of time. My interrogator was blethering on about something, precisely what I had no idea. At that point, I likely would have told him I was a potted plant if he would have let me have a little something to eat, the chance to doss down for a few hours. _But he wouldn't belt up._

The question that finally released Tom escapes me even today, though I doubt my interrogator is so fortunate. Whatever it might have been, I had him pinned against the wall, all six-and-a-half stone of me, with one hand gripping his throat until his eyes bulged and his wand resting between his eyes. 'I was thinking of starting a little dirty protest,' a strange strained voice uttered, 'by spreading you across the walls, you little shit.' An unwelcome calm washed over me as Tom surged past my consciousness to the fore. I desperately tried to rein him back in, but the training regimen had shattered my last defences. My interrogator screamed – insofar as he could – for assistance, his eyes widened further as his face went an unhealthy shade of purple. I could taste the Killing Curse forming itself on my tongue, the bile threatening to burn a hole straight through as I forced my mouth to remain shut. _Just one little death, my dear,_ Tom argued, his voice as charming as ever, _and you'll be free._ As the last vestiges of my consciousness ebbed away and my mouth opened to cast the Killing Curse, two other members of the training staff burst through the interrogation room door, quickly stunning me.

Waking up in hospital a week later, having regained much of my earlier weight, I learned that all but three of the other apprentices had failed, their memories modified to erase the horrible experiences from their minds. While a combination of the Augureys, the seemingly interminable interrogation sessions, Veritaserum, and the Unforgivables broke the rest of my mates, I resisted. After three years of the DA and battling real Death Eaters, I'd developed some resistance to the _Imperius_ Curse. Something, I didn't know what at the time, prevented the Veritaserum from having any appreciable effect on me. Remembering what had happened to Neville's parents, I refused to succumb to the _Cruciatus_ Curse. In an effort to break me, the staff overstepped the training regimen. At that point, both they and I seem to have forgotten it was simply an exercise. So, I received the full treatment. _Imperius_, _Cruciatus_, Veritaserum, Augureys, sleep deprivation, starvation, humiliation, who knows what else. I succeeded in putting six Aurors on stress leave, not counting my last interrogator who threatened to resign, something the Ministry was eager to prevent in light of the losses incurred by the War. I was about to tell the messenger what she could do with her information when I realised it was Tonks. She looked like one of the six on stress leave, her features drawn, eyes red from lack of sleep and crying. She hugged me and apologised profusely for having sponsored my application to join the Aurors despite my protests to the contrary. It was then that I finally broke. I remembered doing something similar over Luna's grave.

Holding Tonks tightly, I wept inconsolably, bringing us back to other unhappy times. Mum, Charlie, Harry when we finally had the chance to see his resting place. For only the second time in my life, I related what had happened to Luna as I gasped between torrents of tears. How I'd failed to protect my friend and for what purpose. Tonks shuddered as the details spilled from my mouth, unbidden and unwelcome. Before, only Dumbledore had needed to know. I couldn't even tell Harry all that had been done to our friend, fearing his need for vengeance might consume him. Yet Professor Dumbledore had to know. Only he could save Luna's father the horror of knowing what exactly had been done to her, what so very easily could have been done unto me. The Headmaster needed to know so that he could train Harry to use that long-forgotten spell, a charm so terribly personal, so dangerous that it hadn't been used in almost one-and-half centuries. But I didn't tell her about Tom. Eventually, I succumbed to a restless sleep filled with visions of Luna, Harry, and Tom.

Tom. Voldemort. Handsome young man, charming in a vile way. A procurer, then the deformity seeking immortality. _Voldemort._ What can be nicked from death? A few precious moments, if one is lucky. Eternity's pointless without those you love. And Tom never loved anyone, really, not even his mum. He blamed her for his situation, much as he cursed all Muggle-born and 'half-blood' witches and wizards. But he knew she had loved him and felt ashamed he couldn't respond in kind. Bereft of affection and burdened by the affectation as the Heir of Slytherin, he sought revenge upon all others. Still, the original shame of 'half-bloodedness' never left him.

He's the ominous shadow constantly lurking behind you on a late night down a dark road, a distant face you would rather not recognise in a crowd. Tom is there, unbidden, unwelcome, but essentially harmless. Unless...

* * *

Luna. Of all people... 

She and Harry. I was jealous of the rapport they shared and frightened of how well she knew me. She would say things, ask questions he would pretend not to hear that made me suspicious of how close they had become after the Department of Mysteries. Her queries grew in frequency after that little misadventure in October of my fifth year.

She caught me soon after I'd apologised to Harry for thrusting myself on him in that alcove, convincing him that I was seeing Dean then. Harry left me perplexed, smiling as he wandered back to the Castle after he congratulated me and the recently dishevelled Ron and Hermione on our love-lives. Hermione peered at me with those piercing analytical eyes. I returned a sympathetic grimace that I hoped didn't portray me as too much of a scarlet woman as I longed to seep into the earth to mix with the tears that threatened to flow forth. She girned, battling off a telling rebuke for betraying myself and her friend when Harry needed us most. Ron gawped at his friend's back with astonishment. Harry's cavalier acceptance of Ron and Hermione's good fortune and the odd control Harry seemed to maintain over his emotions contrasted dangerously with his behaviour of the year before. Thick though he can be, occasionally a subtle manoeuvre or gesture can penetrate, probably winding its way through whatever part of his brain's for chess and Quidditch. Fearing the worst, they set after him.

I, however, was rooted where I sat beside Harry, where I lied to him about Dean, about that kiss, everything, watching the grass slowly rise to recover the indentation he and his book had left. Absentmindedly, my hand played over the surface of the lawn, the chilled autumn air sending gentle waves across the grounds, a short current flowing through my arm as each blade succeeded in its struggle to rise once more. I've no idea how long I'd sitting there when a vague shadow loomed overhead. Thinking it was Malfoy and his trolls, I leapt upright with wand outstretched only to be greeted by Luna's bemused expression.

'I think you forgot a wrist motion in that hex,' she corrected. She always knew the precise phrase that guaranteed to unsettle her collocutor.

'Harry does it that way,' I returned, raising an interrogatory eyebrow.

Cautiously avoiding the shape he had left, Luna circled to my other side and primly sat, elegantly smoothing her skirt and robes. 'Yes, but he's become a little accident prone lately.' She fixed me with those calm blue eyes as she said those last words, usually so vague but now terribly stern, quashing whatever rebuttal I might have had before it had the chance to form. 'I ran into him as he was headed to the Infirmary,' she explained. 'He'd injured his hand somehow.' The hint of an accusation echoed in my ears.

'I've done nothing to him,' I pleaded.

'I don't think he feels that's so.' I still don't know what was more off-putting, the initial accusation or the smile she then gave me. My mouth widened in shock as I realised she knew what I must have told him. 'You look a lot like Ron when you do that,' she declared, smiling while patting my hand before trailing off to the Castle, leaving me alone with two worn and warm patches of grass, a bemused look, and more questions that I doubted I could ever answer.

Luna was the only person I told that bloody dream to, until I finally told Harry that May of my sixth year. She insisted that I tell Harry and Dumbledore immediately. 'At the very least,' she muttered, toying with her butterbeer cork necklace, 'you should tell him how you truly feel.' It was just before Christmas holidays, fifth year. When Mum died.

Dean and I had separated by then, after our hands had become a little too adventurous (you're young but the once). The Hogwarts wards separated us before our hands groped and slid further, reminding us of the consequences and of whom we'd rather be with in that broom closet. We gaped at each other, faces flushed, lips swollen, hearts bursting, skin tender, bodies still aching yet minds rebelling. I slid to the floor, just aware enough to cover my rumpled modesty. Equally embarrassed, Dean spun about, tucking his shirt back in. 'Sorry,' we both grumbled, saddened by our failure as well as being reduced to such a state by our hormones. 'We should end this,' we parroted unintentionally, producing a bit of nervous laughter between us that did little to settle our anxiety.

It was then in our distress that we decided upon the great Gryffindor Hallowe'en Break-up. Or battle royale, really. It was four days to the Feast when we stormed into the Common Room hurling insults at one another. Ron didn't know whether to be pleased that Dean and I had split or furious with him, eventually settling on trying to punch him. My git brother only managed to hit Seamus who, seeking to take a poke a Ron, struck Neville who had likewise sought to mediate. Then the fists truly began to fly. I was about to leave for the girls' dormitories, shaking my head at the boys' sheer stupidity while my fellow Gryffindors gazed on aghast, when I noticed Harry emerge through the portrait hole. His downcast eyes were dead to the world – as they were shortly after Sirius died – his body moved in that same mechanical fashion. I struggled to get beside him, to ask what happened when one of the louts collided – Neville, I think – with him.

The cat-calls and cheers that had started among the boys and some of the girls died immediately. When Harry rose, the crowd scattered havering about homework, clubs, or other endeavours. It wasn't that he was angry; he looked positively murderous. He put Snape to shame. Yet Harry didn't so much yell as reprimand, roundly and surprisingly calmly. 'What in bloody hell do you prats think you're doing?' he snarled, helping Neville back onto his feet over-exuberantly. 'What bleeding example are you setting for the younger boys, hmm?' glaring at the four of them, concluding with a poke at Prefect Ron's chest. The faintest trace of a grin wavered on Harry's lips. 'If _ever_ I have the misfortune of witnessing any further display of sheer git-like behaviour, I'll duly inform a _responsible_ prefect, Hermione Granger, who I'm certain knows the right punishment for at least _one_ of you.' True to form, my brother gulped. 'Now bugger off, the lot of you.' And move they did. Harry continued on up to the empty sixth year boys' dormitory, failing or unwilling to acknowledge my presence but a few feet away until I called to him.

He turned with a smile, but it had died long before it reached his eyes. 'Not now, Ginny,' he pleaded, 'I just need some rest.'

A quarter-hour later, with the boys still out, I sneaked next to Harry's bed. He was on his side facing away from the door, causing me to circle round the four-poster to see his face. The trace of a single tear was still visible on his cheek as the drop had navigated its way down to the tip of his nose where it had fallen onto the bedclothes. Even so, he seemed peaceful. My eyes lingered on his features so long I had to remind myself not to touch him. A silvery ball sat within the palm of his left hand, the right splayed beside it. I wanted so much then. For him to wake, to have him hold me in his arms like my parents and my brothers had when I was younger, to kiss him softly as he lay sleeping... most of all to tell him the truth.

I don't know how long I'd been out when a male hand gently shook me awake. 'Ginny,' the voice whispered, 'you'd best get out before Ron comes.' Glancing upward along the line of that arm, I saw Neville's worried face half-hidden in shadows flit between mine and my hand entwined in Harry's. And, and... Though the gloaming October sky permitted just the faintest shafts of light into the room, I witnessed another eye, a tempestuous sea green peering through a forest of black. How long had Harry been awake, how much had he known?

We danced that Hallowe'en in the Common Room, but we each danced with several others besides, more for fun than for courting. Harry had tried to speak with me that night, but we're a popular pair individually... When Dean wasn't trying to divert Parvati from Harry or one of the seventh years, he would occasionally cast me a worried grimace and a nod toward the other boy. Harry, who had taken to looking like his old sullen self when he thought no-one was looking, would recover momentarily for a joke or a turn. Who ended the evening seated in the coveted fireside chairs with Neville chatting about DA lessons.

Even Luna would have tried to slap some sense into me after that night. She nearly did the next time we met.

'The Antipodean Hoary Salamander can only imprint on one mate, ever,' she spoke softly to me in Herbology class. A shiver ran down my spine. 'I hear you're no longer seeing Dean Thomas,' she continued cautiously as Professor Sprout examined our efforts. 'Did you finally decide to tell him how you feel about Harry?' sprang out as the little witch stood before us, soil-covered notebook at the ready. Thankfully, the Professor pretended not to hear.

Yet how would things have changed had I told him I loved him _then?_ Would Mum still be alive, would Harry still be whole? How many other members of my family would have survived? Which others would have died? And what about Luna herself...

After nearly a year of shame, of keeping him away because of that damn vision, I, we broke. Harry's resolve stiffened each time we met, kissed, embraced. He could hold Tom back for longer periods, hiding thoughts – hiding me – while probing Voldemort's. Harry was becoming happier, stronger, more dangerous. Foolishly, I'd decided to celebrate our happiness by telling Luna down by the lake, well within school grounds. _Safe._

We never saw whence the ambush came, only the red light of their Stunners. Waking in transit, bodies jostling uncomfortably down some rough country road, a hand connected with a familiar voice, ordered 'Drink this,' holding my nose when I refused. Gasping for air, the man poured some foul tasting liquid down my throat, holding my chin and covering my mouth afterward so I spilled none of it. I felt strange, as if my joints were being twisted out of their natural orbits. As my body shuddered from the first potion, the same hands forced another on me, spreading oblivion before it.

What woke me next were the screams and the overwhelming desire for unconsciousness or deafness, whichever came first. I yearned to tear of my ears so that I would no longer be able to hear the shrieks of agony and horror that echoed through the dull, damp pock-marked grey stone. Worse still was the insane laughter, male and female, hideously responding to the keening. The potions still clouded my senses, but a sudden brightening of the room and the creak of an iron door announced the arrival of a newcomer. _And the moaning, the cackling became louder..._

'Where's the other one?' a slurred older male voice demanded.

'That one's for the Dark Lord,' a younger, familiar voice answered.

'Bugger that, boy,' the man rebuked. 'Where is she, the blond one?' God, no. _Luna._ 'I see her...'

A coarse hand latched to my ankle and dragged me across the rough ground.

'The Dark Lord...'

'Shut it, boy!' the man bellowed. I tried to lash out but hadn't the strength. Despondent and unable to do anything in my current state but cry, I felt reason flee me, a presence forced my consciousness howling in terror into an observer's role. A horrible calm washed over me. Though unable to actively respond, I could see and feel all that was happening. And it was becoming clearer and sharper. As that older man pulled me to the centre of the small room, the will replacing mine grew stronger.

'Mine...' a third voice spat. Every wrinkle, every fleck of spittle and who knows what else on the gob that depraved swine holding my ankle became visible, drunken salacious leer and all, the split-second before he travelled the three feet to the wall, his head making a heartening yet sickening crack against the concrete to crumple dead before me. 'Dare touch...' the voice swore as the presence vainly attempted to roll me onto my knees as my eyes scanned the room for the young man. I guess that one exertion was all Tom had, all I had to save me...

A pair of hands raised my back brusquely from the hard surface and pushed me roughly forward. My hands, already scraped raw by the first man's endeavours, clattered once more on the concrete. 'No questions,' the young man grunted lifting me under my armpits with such a tug my feet left the ground. 'Not a sound,' he grumbled, pulling my arm tightly about his neck, 'if you want to live.'

Living was the least of my concerns at that point. The whimpering, however... And the chortling... I never wanted to hear laughter again. 'She's dead, or as good as,' he swore, guiding me up the crumbling stairs down which the sea air refreshed me. Coming into the light, I noticed my hair changing colour, my arm slip slightly lower down his back, causing him to wrench me upright again, nearly dislocating my arm.

He continued muttering as he struggled to bring me to the surface. Cursing Voldemort for his imbecilic followers, inveighing against the idiotic beasts in the other room for their inability to perform a simple _Cruciatus_ Curse, railing against his father for his incompetence, his arrogance. 'Malfoy?' I ventured.

'No questions,' he answered with a poke of his wand into my ribs to silence me. Once outside, he dropped me unceremoniously onto the turf to sit inches from my face. Wrenching off the silly Death Eater mask, I saw my suspicion was correct. 'Now listen.' Able to do nothing else, I did.

'Tell Dumbledore about that vision.' My eyes must have widened as he swiftly added, 'Don't ask.

'Tell him about the other girl as well; he'll know what to do. And lastly and most importantly, you will remember to tell him, Potter, your thick prat of a brother, and his Mudblood who saved your life.' Vaguely, I recall he muttered _Portus_ and thrust his mask into my bleeding hand. 'Remember.'

How could I forget?

Luna and I were found within hours of one another in a nearby park. I was taken to a Muggle hospital immediately where I was kept sedated when the healers – the doctors – weren't prodding me with strange implements or the police with questions I couldn't answer. The doctors wouldn't let me contact anyone from the outside, not even Hermione's parents. The investigating officers were furious that I could tell them nothing, thinking I was protecting my attackers rather than them. Luna was made the subject of a murder investigation. The Order found us two days after the Muggles and removed us back to Hogwarts.

The first thing I recall upon waking was the question I feared most. 'Had she been ... _interfered_ with?' I think it was Dad, maybe it was Bill. I saw both of their heads looking towards Madam Pomfrey, following her as she navigated around them to reach me.

'No,' she declared flatly with no intention of answering any further questions. She peered into my eyes, seeking something. Having discerned nothing unusual therein, she gave me a sorrowful, sympathetic smile, a tear resting on an eyelid before shuffling off, grumbling about intrusive visitors.

I was surprised only the two of them were there until the last drops of the dreamless sleep potion drained from my bloodstream. Then I remembered it all.

Madam Pomfrey was, is nothing if not entirely attuned to the needs of her charges. Instinctively rolling to my right, I found a convenient bucket to be sick into. She returned shortly after to place a compress on my head and order Bill to take care of the pail. Though a young woman of sixteen, I clung tenaciously to Dad's work robes, sobbing bitterly into them, knowing what I had to do but dreading every moment up to that point, wanting to remain where I was, revelling in being able for that brief instant to reverse time, to be a little girl again. Never again.

Dumbledore was no more pleased to hear my words than I was to utter them. Worse still, he recognised something else in my vision that had passed my notice. Ordering Fawkes to bring Harry to his office, the Headmaster commanded me to tell no one else of the dream or what had happened except as Malfoy had instructed and assisted me from his office into Ron and Hermione's embrace.

Harry didn't return to the Common Room for several hours. When he did, the life had drained from his face. He hadn't believed the part about Malfoy any more than Ron or Hermione did until he saw my face. He just stood there near the portrait hole, an odd pained smile faintly cast on his face. Breaking from the pair and through the volleys of queries, I stood before him. I bit my lip to stop from sobbing aloud as the tears trailed down our faces as he hugged me tightly and led me out the hole.

In that forgotten classroom we had found when Harry first told me he cared for me, we embraced each other fervently, terrified of letting one another go. There, curled in his lap, mouth pressed against his ear, arms entwined around him, fingers clutching his robes firmly so he couldn't scarper, I told him I loved him. He tensed briefly before holding me closer to him, crushing me against his chest and answered in kind. We sat there on the floor the rest of the afternoon, saying nothing further, our hearts too heavy for anything else. He believed he was destined to die that night. I was relieved just to be alive to see him once more.

_

* * *

Once more. _

Sometimes that phrase isn't so ominous. Like now.

Hermione explains to me that I'm not to blame for putting Harry and me at risk. Her arms embrace me firmly, ensuring that I won't escape from her this time. Gently, she rocks us as she discloses that their Floo had been under surveillance for several months, maybe even dating from the time of her miscarriage, and that only clever ferreting about by her clandestine friend in the Ministry uncovered Lucretia Perkins's ploy.

'Yes, Perkins,' she utters as if speaking the name of the Devil himself. Babbage as well, of course. He probably devised the scheme and means of obtaining _Minister's eyes only_ clearance without ever having to inform Minister Bones. Perkins and Babbage must have had to call in a century's worth of favours for that little triumph. That Babbage is a fiendish little fox just waiting to get his tail docked...

'We wanted to tell you,' she adds, 'but you avoided us until long after they'd stopped observing us, and...' She stops as I look up at her, my eyes stinging from lamenting my sorry lot like some dejected schoolgirl, hardly able to speak with a throat raw from boaking. _Why didn't you tell me?_ my gaze pleads. 'And we, I was afraid you would hate us even more if I told you...' she finishes lamely.

It was the wrong thing to have done to have concealed that piece of information from me. Perhaps we could have acted quicker, while they were still off balance... No, we still can't act, not while Harry can't recall who and what he was. But she's right for another reason. I would have betrayed them in my rage, forgotten they were family, neglected them, ignored how much I truly love those two bloody berks. I hug her upper torso tightly, careful not to crush her abdomen saturated with the fear of another miscarriage. I supplicate for her forgiveness, muttering entreaties that she answers with chiding pleas to stop suffocating her.

Hermione is pregnant once more. With luck, she and Ron will break generations of tradition and have a daughter first, one she can mother and raise to behave like a proper young lady while Ron, Fred and I corrupt her into becoming a right sinful Quidditch playing, cursing, prank pulling miscreant with the requisite thick Weasley veneer of respectable eccentricity. Then again, a boy might do as well, but people tend to be so less suspicious of us girls.

'Boy or girl?' I ask Hermione as she mops my brow, holding me close to her chest. I can already tell she'll be a good mum; she's had two superb role models, one for small families and another for small armies. She doesn't answer, though, just rocks me gently to calm our nerves. A woman of almost twenty-three, I should hate this but I've missed having... I've missed Mum. And Dad.

Oh, how Dad would've loved to meet Harry as he is now. They'd have discussions about films and football, spend endless hours talking about the gadgets modern Muggles use everyday. That's the great thing about men: they're always such _boys._

I ask again about the baby's sex. This time Hermione refuses to answer. 'I don't want to jinx anything,' she mutters. How swiftly the tables are reversed as I spin 'round to comfort her. We've had our differences in the past, but Hermione will always be a sister to me.

'You are such a Mum.' Kissing her brow and smoothing her fears.

It was four years ago when we last had this conversation. After Tom had been released.

If anything, his reappearance made me sterner, more able to cope with the vicissitudes of life. Such as Hermione's miscarriage.

She had Flooed from St Mungo's, face drenched in tears, eyes burning in misery. Just the sight of her in that condition, despite all that passed between us during my last year at Hogwarts, was enough to send me immediately over. I held her as she inundated the pair of us as she relayed the wretched tale of my vile brother's departure. She failed to give me the reason why he left so suddenly that night, but the product of his disappearance drove any questions I might have had far from my mind. Now, only now, I suspect it must have been something to do with Harry. The way they cast sidelong glances at him, terrified that he will shatter. Her admonitions about our living together and our impending marriage, her dire warnings about the possibility of a relapse are enough to drive anyone mad. What else Hermione might know about his plight I've no desire to discover at the present moment…

While my sibling behaved like the churlish prat he once was, I cared for Hermione as she slowly recovered from her loss. She plagued me with questions about Auror training that she knew I couldn't answer, and wondered about my life in general. The remainder of the time, she mourned as I mothered her. The lamentation I could support, but the prying infuriated me. As days became weeks, my patience waned. I found it simpler to be cross with her than compassionate. Thankfully, my acting skills were able to disguise my mounting disgust with the exception of a few brief instances.

I said such horrid things on those uncommon but insufficiently rare incidents. Things I never would have said had I been in my right mind, things I'll regret to my last days…

Yet the rage surged within me, almost unquenchable. Spiteful, petty, and merciless… All so very Tom-like.

Then she told me about the miscarriage. And the scales fell from my eyes.

Seeing my only options as being insanity with Hermione or bellowing at Ron, which was not only deserved but an old favourite, I opted for the latter. He was very difficult to run to ground to chastise properly. Midway through a decent rant, he would blunder off, grimacing in hateful ire and agony. I couldn't fathom the cause of the latter emotion at the time. I only knew that its appearance enraged me more. Finally, after six aggravating weeks of this chasing about and in spite of Hermione's pleas not to tell him about the miscarriage, I blurted – OK, howled and hissed – it all at him shortly after one of his Quidditch practices. I've no doubt that had there been a Boggart present, Ron would have seen two of me doing unto him what needed to be done. They spent a month getting themselves sorted, granting me time enough to hammer the beast back down into the abyss.

How that child would have changed us all… We mightn't be so distant as we are now. Or were.

'You'll be a great mother,' I tell her with a gentle embrace. 'What will you call him?' I ask mischievously.

Hermione's too clever to rise to the bait and prevaricates. 'If it's a boy, we decided on Arthur George.'

'Why not George Arthur?' I wonder.

'We,' meaning _she_, 'thought the wee one should have the chance to earn his Marauder credentials the old way.'

'So, it will be a boy?'

'Knowing this family, probably,' she finally admits. 'But if she's a girl,' she glanced at me nervously, fearful I'd create another scene, 'we were thinking of Molly.'

Odd thing, life. I'd feared she would say that, hoping I'd be able to pass down Mum's name. But now she's uttered it, it seems right and proper. As things should have been.

'Molly Hermione,' I say to her astonished yet happy stare. 'Well, we can't just leave you and Angelina to fend for yourselves against the three of us Weasleys alone, can we?'

'Four of you,' she corrects. 'Don't forget Harry.'

No, never forget Harry.

* * *

It was my first assignment as an Auror. 

Seemed a simple case. Indeed, so simple the Muggle police had initially thought they could solve it. Headquarters discovered certain peculiarities through our contact, DS Silas Wakefield, a Squib working in the Greater Manchester constabulary. Wakefield has a keen eye for oddities and knew when to contact us. Saved the Muggle Liaison Office – always strangely filled with those having no comprehension of Muggles and their ways – the bother of sending one of their preening prats to the North-West.

Still, Tonks tried to get me reassigned. Tonks had tried to get me reassigned but I insisted. After my experiences before and during training, I'd grown tired of being the resident porcelain doll. I could've sworn there was a 'Meissen' hallmark stamped on my arse. (Except, of course, with the rest of the Auror training directing staff who were as beastly as ever.) Besides, of what use is an Auror who wiles away her days sharpening quills behind a bureau? Had I been aware of the similarities between this mission and... I wouldn't have argued so vociferously for my inclusion. Or at all.

The body was found in a copse near Macclesfield. A man walking his dog had discovered her. (That ought to have been the first sign something was amiss.) No Dark Mark had been witnessed nearby by the local witch-in-residence, Mabel Carstairs, octogenerian and tea fetishist. ('Typhoo? That rubbish never touched _these_ lips!' Mentalist.) Even so, there were sufficient indications of Death Eater involvement. Tarting ourselves up in dress suits, stockings, and warrant cards – Tonks has an ironic view of fashion – we Apparated southward to the almost deserted crime scene.

The murder hadn't been committed amidst the trees, that was certain to both us and the Muggle police. There hadn't been many clues for them to find, and we had no better luck. Wakefield, who'd been waiting for us in his sedan with a flask of hot, sweet tea, drove us to see the pathologist and the victim.

God, it was horrible... Despite the deaths I'd witnessed during the war, especially after the dreadful losses my family suffered, I hadn't the bottle to see another like... She was a young girl of no more than thirteen. Her body bore all the marks of Death Eater abuse. _Luna._ Staring mesmerized at the shattered vessel before me I couldn't spew, nor could I move at all. I remember a single tear cutting its way down my cheek as the 'Our Father' curled and shrank on my tongue. Tonks told me after our cheery little visit that Shacklebolt had sent a pair of trusted Obliviators to set her discoverer's mind to rest. We weren't so fortunate.

Vaguely, I noted that the pathologist admitted he could find no single cause for the girl's death despite all that had been done to her. My mind mercifully switched off as he catalogued the atrocity exhibition for our benefit. The details could wait until they were on sterile paper back in my hotel room, safely reduced to a host of symbols on a page. There, then, I could understand none of it.

I just wanted to be home, whether in our flat with Harry to comfort me, or back at the Burrow where Mum could hug me 'til my eyes watered and tell me the past six years have simply been some horrible nightmare. If only.

I'd told Harry I had to go for a two-month refresher course on homeopathic practices at some hotel outside Manchester. He'd given me a disbelieving look then, not entirely accepting that Healers went on such training ventures, but trusting me not to leave him. Advising me to steer clear of wearing red in the East or blue in the West of town on match day, he wished me well with a kiss. I promised to ring him. I couldn't do that when all I saw was Luna on that examination table. Taking a Dreamless Sleep draught, I laid down on the hotel room bed and thought of England.

A week passed before I eventually felt myself able to ring Harry without immediately thinking about Luna. And our victim. It had taken me two full days beyond the first to finally separate those two girls. He was worried that I had not rung earlier but not suspicious, contentedly asking what I'd learned and accepting the tale I wove. His trust ought to have satisfied if not pleased me. Instead, I felt ashamed.

I yearned to tell him the truth, all of it, from his past to that case. My training and his treatment prevented me from doing so. I had to maintain my back-story for both of our sakes. Hermione's thinly veiled warnings about the potential repercussions of a relapse had I informed him about the destruction of his former self weighed heavily upon me. I needed the confidence in which he held me, but I hated him for that weakness I fully exploited.

His faith in me was canine, servile. Almost appalling. Yet dog-like he could perceive nuances within my necessary lies. As I profited from his belief, he manipulated me – the clever swine – into revealing more about his past than I should have. We were always thus, playing with one another's foibles but not always to each other's benefit. We kept one another honest. At least, inasmuch as fate allowed us.

Fate, however, allowed that poor girl nothing.

Those first two weeks Tonks and I trawled the records. Tax rolls offered the names of the adult members of the wizarding community within the region while Departmental records gave us the known and suspected Death Eaters. We scoured the Muggle police files as well for other assaults. Our eyes ached from scanning page after page of official reports, our feet from all of the walking to visit the members of our society for any leads. In the end, we found him.

The bastard wasn't a Death Eater. Just some sodding nonce who had used some of Voldemort's followers techniques garnered from overly explicit books on the last war to deflect our attention from him and to satisfy his repugnant impulsives. A history of escalating attacks led us to his door. Had he reached for his wand, I've no doubt either Tonks or I would have blasted him through the wall without any immediate recriminations. Instead, he came meekly with us. His obsequious behaviour carried through to the trial before the Wizengamot. Perhaps he believed such behaviour would be misconstrued as remorse. Maybe he chanced that the magistrates would interpret his fawning as being incompatible with the bestiality of the heinous crime committed. But it was a fair cop; his wand and other exhibits revealed all, much to the collective disgust of his judges and jury.

Then came the question all had been dreading. The sentencing. The Wizengamot couldn't simply snap his wand and fling him into a Muggle prison, where Tonks and I had no doubt what his fate, wizard or no, would have been. Azkaban was still being reconstructed, the means of securing its future inmates still hadn't been decided. Exceptional punishments were, therefore, the norm after the war, and that bugger's was no different.

Upon the order of Minister Perkins, he was to be Obliviated to the point from which its was assumed his sociopathic behaviour arose. Afterward, he'd be placed within the finished portion of the new wizarding prison. Neither Tonks nor I was in favour. She felt Obliviation would remove from him the responsibility of his former actions as well as the possibility of feeling remorse for what he had done. Most days I'd have been satisfied given him a not so discreet shove off the Firth of Forth Bridge. Yet I couldn't help but image Perkins had other reasons for ordering his Obliviation.

The sentence was carried out shortly after it had been delivered, not allowing either of us to avoid the awful scene about to befall him. Four Obliviators – all trustworthy and looking quite uneasy with their court-appointed role – came through the door as the chair tightened its restraints on the convict. Behind them came a pair of Healers, neither of whom were known to us, though I noted Hermione shuddered when I mentioned their names just now. The first part of the procedure took three hours as the Obliviators peeled away the years from the guilty man. After which we observers were permitted to leave. Further treatments 'ensured' that his memories couldn't be recovered and that they had altered his memories to the intended period.

I saw the gormless, innocent-seeming look on his daft little face and wondered whether that was how Harry looked after Perkins's lot had done him over. Though the two men were so different in life, in this quasi-death they were brothers. I've no doubt that it was Perkins's intent to remind me of how far she would go to ensure her position and privileges.

We'll just have to show her how far we'll go to take them from her.

**

* * *

**

Sarawak, Borneo

---(Draco's POV)---

When I returned to the bunker, the remnant of an old Muggle war, I confronted a nightmare. Only the loathing in which I held four of the occupants of that squalid hellhole kept me from spewing at the repugnant display of depravity to which I bore witness. Three of them I'd known since I was a child. Goyle senior, drinking Firewhisky from the bottle, spilling most of it down his front as he encouraged his son. The boy, Gregory, had protected me, much as his equally dim friend, Vincent, whose antics had Millicent cackling hideously. I was, am, ever so thankful I kept Pansy from this. They hadn't even realised the girl had reverted to her true form, not that they would have cared anyway.

I always thought it would have been difficult to kill someone. Father was afraid I would be weak when the time came. But when struck by such a sight, it was easy. The Curse came to my tongue with ease, almost too much so. For my last victim, there was no hatred, only... ambivalence, mixed with a foreign emotion. Pity, perhaps.

'It had to be done,' I said, understanding I was trying to convince myself, that she was too far beyond reason to comprehend anything. Unable to look at the horror on her face any longer, I Obliviated her. She was not long for the world, I knew, so I did what needed to be done. Raising her head, I poured the Draught of the Living Death mixed with a gentle poison down her throat. And I patiently waited for her to die, holding her hand until it grew cold.

I burned the other five bodies. Nobody else had known Millicent, Goyle's girlfriend, had joined our group, leaving those who came to fetch us with the possibility I'd been killed along with the rest instead of hiding on the Continent.

Within a few days, Voldemort was dead and so was Potter and much of the Weasleys. Despite my efforts to dissuade her from going, Pansy died in that battle as well. The little Weasley girl, I was surprised and strangely pleased to learn, survived.

And yet I have these dreams...

**

* * *

A/N2: Again apologies for taking so long to update, and for likely taking even longer to update after this chapter. **

* * *

**Thanks!**

To **knbnnate** for your kind reviews. I hope I'll be able to update more quickly and that this story continues to intrigue you. Hopefully the angst level will decrease after this chapter.

To **GiGiFanFic**, thanks for reading and the review. I hope I'll be able to keep your interest.

To **GentleWaterSoul**, I hope you're continuing to read and that you're still enjoying the story.

To **Bobboky**, thank you for reading this story, and I'm glad you're finding this a different post-Hogwarts fic.

To **flyinhigh**, sorry that the writing occasionally ventures into the obnoxiously florid. It's something that tends to plague mywriting from time to time. I blame too much education and not enough fiction! :)

To **DJIN7**, I'm ecstatic that you are finding the story and imagery so fascinating. Mostly the story comes to me in rare flashes that I try to piece together, though since writing is such a magpie affair, other things tend to slip into the story, hopefully not to anyone's dismay!

To **AP Mom**, thanks for reading this story both here and on SIYE. I'm glad you're finding it interesting and I hope to keep up the quality level in this and following chapters!


	20. The Wedding Present, Part 1

**There and Back Again Lane**

Ch. 20 – The Wedding Present

_Someone must have been telling lies about Joseph K., for he awoke from his bed to find himself arrested one fine morning._

—Franz Kafka, 'The Arrest,' _The Trial_

* * *

'_ere I am, JH._

—_Brazil_

**Part 1: Green-eyed locoman**

England?

—(Harry's POV)—

Here I am, though where 'here' is I've no idea. Everyone must assume that the wisest course is to leave me completely in the dark. Why I can't fathom any definite reason. Perhaps it's due to my headaches, but that's an egoist's reasoning. Maybe it's to protect Hermione and Ginny, although Ginny doesn't need much protection, one woman wrecking crew that she is. More likely, they're just too busy to explain things to the resident village idiot.

And busy they certainly were. Ginny and I arrived here using another Portkey. (Amazingly, I failed once more to redecorate someone's elaborate flooring with sick.) She removed me to a hastily vetted sitting room, pressed me into a comfortable yet hideous chair, and left me with very firm instructions not to leave it or to touch anything. Plagued by the remaining twinges of my latest mini-migraine and stomach-churning voyage, I politely complied. Thus freed, Ginny immediately set to work casting more protective spells on the windows, doors, etc., like those she put on our flat's windows.

Ron and Hermione came by car. Their bickering about the comparative safety of broomsticks and flying carpets to her driving awoke me. It was a losing battle; I've no idea why he persisted. I suppose one man's appointment with injury is another's foreplay.

Despite the nervous looks and strange questions, I half-wished that we'd travelled with them. When Ron ran off to assist Ginny in protecting the house, I began dreaming of a car hurtling through London traffic at remarkable velocity, squeezing between cars, and seating twelve. At least until Hermione started examining me.

'Harry!'

She meant well, but wouldn't you curse if you were resting peacefully and some fool wrenches open your eyelids to test pupil dilation?

Satisfied I wasn't going to continue through my repertoire of oaths, she quickly set to completing the examination.

'I suppose you were the inspiration behind Ginny's Healer story,' I advanced conversationally as she studied my ocular reflexes. A censorious frown revealed how wrong I was.

'She came up with that little idea on her own, Harry,' Hermione groused. 'Anyway, would you have believed she was an Auror?'

I shook my head, especially as I would have had no idea what an Auror was. It is still perplexing even now that I know what an Auror is, though the journey to and through Haseltoun was a bit of a giveaway.

'Did you know I was in the area the day I met Ginny?'

Hermione pulled back, her stern demeanour replaced by a confused play of joy and regret. She brought a chair and sat beside me, composing herself whilst smoothing her skirt. Obviously, she wasn't familiar with being discomfited so. My question didn't appear to have been completely unexpected, however.

'Ginny asked me that as well,' she smiled. 'It was purely by chance that you encountered one another.'

_Ah, the chain of chance._ Yet neither Hermione nor I were entirely convinced. I decided to test the boundaries of her honesty and my conditioning at once.

'So, fate doesn't enter into it,' I stated plainly, 'despite what Einstein said about God not playing dice.'

She frowned and tilted her head the tiniest bit as if she was preparing to explain something very difficult to someone very dim. 'Then what of free will?' _Bugger._ 'Besides, he was discussing quantum mechanics, not human behaviour.' That and a raised eyebrow won the debate.

Though I knew my next enquiry would discomfit Hermione, it had to be made.

'You were involved in my treatment.' My voice was flat and calm though my stomach churned and my head buzzed in expectation of answers.

'I kept you safe,' she averred. 'I ensured that those who altered your memory didn't harm you any more than was necessary to protect you.'

Remembering back to what Ginny had told me earlier and of people's difficulty in recognising me, I plodded onward. 'You hid me.'

'I had no choice,' she asserted. 'You had no idea what that foul Perkins woman had planned for you.'

Hermione's voice had become hard, but I noticed that she was not simply trying to convince me, but herself as well.

'Anyway, I would have thought you would have had enough of destiny by now,' Hermione smiled. Until she noticed my brow furrowing as a query formed in my hazy mind. Avoiding the inevitable battery of questions to any reply she might make, Hermione stammered a speedy excuse about needing to be elsewhere. I made to follow her, apologising as I went, but I was still wobbly from the Portkey and hadn't travelled very far when a dazed Ginny careered into me.

'Why's Hermione all flustered?' Ginny demanded.

'Something about me having had enough of destiny.'

'You definitely have a way with women, Harry,' she scoffed, rolling her reddened eyes. _She was so tired._ 'With chat-up lines like that, how could you go wrong?'

'Worked on you,' I smirked.

'No, it was pity on my end,' she declared before dragging me off to an empty bedroom.

This place, this manor was gargantuan and impressive. Mind, some of the furnishings seemed to be holdovers from low-grade horror movies, though even on cursory inspection I could tell that the dross would have easily paid several months rent on our flat.

'Where are we?'

Ginny mumbled a reply that she steadfastly refused to repeat. Ignoring my entreaties for information, she pushed me into bed, then left to help the other two.

I had intended to rise and consider my circumstances further, but they conspired against me. A mixture of headaches, drink, and disturbed sleeping patterns over the past few days bludgeoned me into a fitful rest. For some strange reason, I dreamt of that horrid little blond tosser Ginny had head-butted how ever many years ago, of him engaged in petty displays of wickedness, and, stranger still, of a bouncing white ferret. I awoke from these disturbing images to find a very beautiful red-headed woman asleep beside me. Sometimes truth is better than fiction.

According to my glowing watch dial, two hours have passed. As indicated by Ginny's somnolent frowning and garbled muttered threats, lighted watch dials should not be held above one's sleeping girlfriend's head, especially if one wishes to live long enough to become her husband. Though boggled that such faint illumination could provoke such a reaction, I comply immediately. When I try to sneak my arm out from under her, she inches closer, trapping me in place. So, back to the original plan.

Perhaps I should start at the commencement of my latest misadventure in the wizarding world. Right…

In the beginning was the Big Thump, along with the strong urge to spew all over the goblins' lovely stone floor. Admittedly, the universe – if it had or has feelings – probably felt rather chuffed about coming into existence. My second appearance in London in three days left me feeling hungover and not at all pleased. Not that I knew I was in London immediately.

Before we departed Haseltoun, I had surmised that a Portkey was a means of travel. Our arrival in what I was soon to learn was Diagon Alley left me with another conclusion: I would rather be shot through a cannon than to experience that once more. It felt as if one was being pulled inexorably by one's stomach through a narrow tube only to be spat out the other side.

Whilst I had the misfortune of cracking my knees on the stones before collapsing to rest my head against them, Ginny – who had suffered enough already – had again come out worst. Though I was meant to be supporting her, with her injured rib(s) and all, we had grasped each other's arms as I had fallen forward, saving me from an almost certain concussion. Unfortunately, our actions had put undo strain upon her battered ribcage. Her typically fair and freckled complexion was turning an unhealthy cherry red and she produced anguished groans. Realising that Ginny had to have been in great agony for her to moan so, I let go and straightened into a proper sitting position all too quickly, further disorientating the both of us. Wobbly as I was, I was still able to grasp tightly on to Ginny's legs before she toppled.

As she teetered, her expression shifted swiftly from relief to panic as if she had lost something along the way. Terrified she was going into shock, I peered up at her face. Ginny had braced herself on my head and shoulder, permitting her to relax somewhat.

At that moment, a ruffled Tonks decided to make us aware of her continued presence. 'Would you two mind behaving professionally for once?' Ginny's supervisor grumbled, nodding and scowling pointedly at my hand that was presently cupping my fiancée's bottom.

Ginny glared down at me and shook her head in consternation. 'Can't even bring you into a bank without having you cause a scene,' she chuntered.

I rose from the floor gradually, giving Ginny time to balance herself whilst muttering my riposte. 'Me? Was I the one making those frankly pornographic sounds?'

The goblin courier, completely unmoved by the jaunt, snorted as he placed the book/Portkey into his satchel and went about his duties. Tonks quickly started discussing something with a bored goblin clerk(?) who had taken Dergspruan's place. And Ginny... well, she blushed.

Her scandalised countenance should have been enough of a warning, but I must still have been dazed from the voyage. 'Cheeky bugger,' she declared prior to pinching my bum, nearly causing us to tumble again. 'Steady on, you clumsy thing,' she chastised with a smirk. If she hadn't that broken rib, I would have given her such a tickling.

I regretted the thought immediately as she winced from a fresh pang wrought by that bloody bone. _Please let it not be bloodied._ 'Ginny...'

Her glower stilled my tongue, but my determined glare informed her that this subject wasn't closed until she received some medical attention. She rolled her eyes and shook her head at my well-meaning attempt to badger her, yet she pulled me closer, though careful not to aggravate her injury. Whilst that was an improvement, I still wasn't deterred and looked to Tonks for support.

Ginny's shape-changing boss, however, was haggling over a thick manila envelope with the clerk. At least, I assumed that was what they were doing as neither seemed interested in retaining it, whatever _it_ was.

'What's in there?' Ginny whispered rhetorically, frowning intently as the other two fought to lose possession of the parcel.

I wondered the same thing myself. Tonks and the goblin's sidelong glances at Ginny deepened my suspicions, but Ginny held me back.

In the end, the clerk found himself the unhappy owner of the package. Disgusted with either his poor negotiating skills or business acumen, the goblin grunted and grudgingly waved for us to follow.

The tapestries were the last clue I needed to know we were no longer in Haseltoun, probably not even in Edinburgh. I had gained a passing familiarity with the richly dressed goblins scowling at us from their picture frames. Even the rosette and pillars in the main hall of Gringotts's Scottish branch were tame compared to the gore and bedlam in wool and linen covering the passage's walls. It was unnerving to be stalked by the odd blood-daubed goblin or Red Cap roving through the woven battlefields. I pulled Ginny closer to safeguard her from their avaricious and hungry eyes, an unnecessary measure that merely earned me another bruise to compliment those I had received in Edinburgh.

'Where are we?' I mumbled to Ginny.

'Diagon Alley, Mr Southam,' announced the clerk. _That explains_ so _much._

Eventually, Managing Director Fogruk greeted us in a small waiting room. Impeded by my presence beside her, Ginny attempted to drop a curtsy along with her superior, but the goblin would have none of it. Smiling in what he must have believed was a fatherly fashion, he bid her to remain upright. He informed us that Dergspruan had apprised him of her injuries and that such formalities from such a welcome guest as she were unnecessarily for the time being. We thanked him for his generosity, which had the unintended consequence of bringing me under his scrutiny.

I bowed once more, as much as possible whilst keeping the honoured guest comfortable. The goblin peered at me censoriously, even more so than before, making it terribly difficult not to reply in kind. Despite my unease, his actions were not with malicious intent, just unnerving. He continued to squint at me for the longest time. Perhaps this disguise isn't as foolproof as was believed.

Tonks coughed shrilly – something that I had never before thought possible, and thankfully so – provoking Fogruk's glowering ire until he realised the source of the disturbance. For some reason, her throat-clearing exercise reminded me of a toad in a wretched pink cardigan, stirring a fresh twinge of pain. Making another curtsy to make amends, she entered a fresh round of negotiations in Gobbledegook with this Managing Director. His face contorted furiously, his eyes narrowed to slits, and he pulled back his large bat-like ears menacingly.

'Right,' he growled. 'I shall inform Mr Weasley. Please wait here while we finalise the arrangements on your deposit, Madam Tonks.' With a curt bow of his head, he spun about and stormed off down the corridor.

I tried to resist, honestly I did, particularly as I had really wanted to ask about that parcel, but… '_Madam_ Tonks?'

She was unperturbed. 'I _am_ over twenty-five.'

'Still, I mean…'

Ginny, however, graciously intervened with the question I should have asked. 'What was in that parcel?' She might have been tired and in a great deal of pain, but that simply made her more irascible.

'I didn't have the chance to look at it,' Tonks lied cavalierly. Conceding that neither of us believed her, she decided to ignore us and sat down in one of the goblin-sized chairs, calmly taking out a newspaper from her cloak.

We sat opposite Tonks and glared at her. This matter with the envelope quashed what little trust that had in developed between us and raised new suspicions. Ginny had doubts about her supervisor as well.

She continued to badger her boss – with greater strength now she was seated – but succeeded only in aggravating her injury and prompting the occasional blush from Tonks. Just as it appeared my beloved firebrand was finally on the road to some sort of response, another clerk appeared with a deposit slip for her governor and orders to hurry us along to the Managing Director's office. Before Ginny had the chance to launch another barrage of queries, Tonks sent us both a quelling look, altering her face to that of someone we both recognised.

Well, by recognised, I mean that I clutched my head and shut my eyes firmly against a sharp bolt of pain coursing through my head. Grateful for the distraction I had unwittingly created for Ginny, Tonks followed the clerk.

'She just _had_ to impersonate McGonagall, didn't she,' Ginny groused as she assured herself I wouldn't suffer a serious attack. Teeth-clenched, she rose and tried to help me to my feet despite the horrible strain on her own body.

'Stop, please,' I demanded, knowing that nothing short of a direct order would compel her to halt. Her compliance, however, rattled me. She had never listened any to of my instructions before… Yet Ginny stood there before me, flush-faced, gasping, and irritable.

'I had to fall for a stoic,' I muttered with a grin, rising to my feet and resuming my earlier posting as support.

As expected, my attempt at levity received a scowl. 'So, you would prefer to marry a little Miss Whinge-a-lot?'

'Well, someone who wasn't so determined to exacerbate her existing condition would be nice.'

I had anticipated the elbow to my ribs as well, but it still hurt. Especially as it was on top of the one she had given me a short while before.

When we had arrived at the Managing Director's office immediately behind Tonks, who had kindly slowed her pace, Ron appeared to have been in the midst of his own negotiations with Fogruk. Ginny's brother smiled anxiously at the three of us, though he understandably focused on his sister.

Now that everything seemed to be coming together, I had to spoil the happy family reunion. Big mouth and his first aid certificate strike again.

Ron's reaction to learning of Ginny's injury was perfectly comprehensible – indeed, commendable. As his face became an alarming wine colour, I was waylaid by tremendous confusion and shame. I felt a hand furiously twisting my collar ever tighter as I fought off the urge to flinch from an incoming blow. I knew such events were all in my mind, but it seemed so real. After all, the only one close enough to strike me was Ginny, and though she might have had motive, at the moment she hadn't the means to both strangle and punch me. I could not see the relevance of that painful recollection to our present circumstances straight away, but something about the vague episode was familiar to me... of corridors and a girl striding away...

Fogruk, the wee pointy-eared angel, saved me from either a full-on migraine or passing out from an indistinctly remembered strangulation by providing Ron with a splendidly brief synopsis of our journey through Haseltoun. I could have kissed the dear goblin, but I feared both he and Ginny might get the wrong idea.

In the end, the Managing Director led Ron from the room, advising us to stay within his office until a clerk retrieved us. Obviously, Ron's participation in our escape route required a bit of preparation. Not too much, however, as a goblin soon appeared motioning for us to follow him. Ron and Fogruk hadn't entirely finalised their arrangements, though.

They argued in hushed tones, Ron gesticulating exuberantly to further emphasise his hissed demands to which Fogruk steadfastly refused to reply. In the end, the Managing Director muttered his final remarks just loud enough for all to hear.

'Mr Weasley, it is simply that you and Mrs Weasley' – goblins appear to be an old-fashioned lot – 'are a young couple, and young couples, even one's so fortunate as yourselves, ought to plan as soon as possible for their future offspring's education.' _Bank managers are all alike,_ I thought. I pondered what rate of interest a Gringotts credit card carried ('A finger for this, a kidney for that') when he began again.

'After all, remember poor Harry Potter. Where would he have been if his parents and predecessors hadn't planned ahead?'

In my peripheral vision, I saw Ginny glance nervously at me, with some cause. His words had struck me hard, a metaphysical slap in the face or bucket of water to an unconscious man, brutally tearing him from oblivion and thrusting the poor sod into reality. What seemed to have been the height of foolishness before now was a probability.

I, Harry Potter, was a wizard.

* * *

The only reason I didn't laugh out loud at the time was that the effort not to look like a total prat gave me a bloody headache.

_Maybe there is more than one Harry Potter,_ I wonder, hope even.

It certainly is possible, but for whatever reason, I don't think that it's true in this case. Ginny, asleep beside me, remembers me from before. So do Ron, Hermione, Fred, Angelina (I think), and Tonks. And that strange bloke Remus we would meet in a bit.

_My friends will put me away,_ my fading sanity counters.

I wouldn't blame them. I'm so perfectly ordinary. After all, if I _was_ a wizard, why must I wear glasses? (Maybe I didn't need spectacles when I was one. _Lucky bastard._) Besides, who would believe there is an entire wizarding community under Calton Hill; that selkies, goblins, and Red Caps are real; and that Ginny, my girlfriend and the woman with whom we play pick-up footie, is not only a real, spell-casting witch but some sort of Jane Bond as well. Ha ha ha... _Ow._

* * *

Back at Gringotts...

Ginny, noticing me squinting and shaking from restrained laughter (and occasional shots of pain), correctly decided my health wasn't in question and dragged – all right, steered – me along to meet her friend Remus.

'You'll like him, I promise,' she said hopefully. From past experience, her words didn't portend well. My mind conjured up one of her former lovers not long enough forgotten and of the gaffes I might commit that would fling them back together, or of some influential extended family member I would manage to offend. I was half right.

Remus was an odd fellow. It wasn't so much his appearance that gave a sense of peculiarity, or at least not his clothing or hair, as the manner in which he carried himself. At a distance, from his grey hair and grave, careworn expression he appeared to have been in his mid-fifties, an impression he unwittingly accentuated by leaning heavily on a walking stick, possibly from an old wound. Approaching him, I noted that though he had aged prematurely, he had done so gracefully. His robes, as far as I could tell, were of good quality and had fit him at one point, when he was less gaunt. But it was his eyes that unnerved me the most.

There was something almost canine in the way he peered at us. It was an intent, piercing gaze, made more threatening by the furrowing of his brow as he glowered at me. He must have believed that I was responsible for Ginny's condition, which visibly distressed him.

With Tonks watching the entrance from a safe distance, Ginny cautiously surveyed the area where we and Remus stood. Satsified no one would hear us, she whispered for me to introduce myself, 'As you did in Haseltoun.'

Tonks's reaction to my reappearance was alarming in its bone-crushing warmth, Remus's in its painful restraint. When I spoke my name and extended my hand to shake his, astonishment replaced his intense glare and a manic grin threatened to cross his face. The struggle to suppress his excitement – for the lack of a better term – twisted the smile into a tremulous smirk. His hand on the walking stick began to tremble as well.

Despite his strained response, things seemed to have been going swimmingly until he told me his name.

'Like Romulus and Remus?' I stupidly enquired as we shook hands. I had no idea what possessed me to say such a daft thing. The quivering grin he had sported since we were introduced faded almost immediately. _What a prick I am._ Swiftly expressing my regrets, his good spirits returned.

'Sorry, it's been a while since I've been asked that,' he replied with a chuckle. 'I didn't know you knew that tale.' He clapped me amicably on the shoulder, and offered me a fatherly smile. His eyes lingered on mine, peering sorrowfully at – not into – them as if expecting to see someone else. Ginny twitched in pain before I had the chance to ask him of whom I reminded him.

'What happened to you?' Remus asked in a tone that suggested Ginny and injury were all too familiar companions.

Ginny replied succinctly. 'Ambush. Probably a broken rib.'

He tutted and expressed his concerns, but dared not examine her. Wise man.

Tonks motioned us over to the entrance. Ron and Fogruk must have succeeded in their sales campaign, for a growing crowd surrounded them. Hidden within the mass of beings, we sneaked down the stairs, making our way along the bustling cobble-stone road towards a small brick archway with Tonks in the lead.

After Haseltoun, Diagon Alley wasn't so much a surprise as disturbingly depressing. Though the road was open to the air and the shops were well-maintained, the scars of war were more prominent here both on the buildings and in people's behaviour. Men and women alike were furtive and suspicious, glowering at us, goading us to prove how wicked strangers were. Haseltoun's shops were less colourful, possibly more mundane as well, but its roads were more vibrant and alive than Diagon Alley. Remus noted my expression in between shared anxious sidelong glances at Ginny – who was becoming steadily more agitated beside me – and informed me it hadn't always been so.

'Are you familiar with your history?' he enquired. I shrugged and admitted I knew a bit, causing Ginny to snicker. 'Then you can imagine how wars have a way of arousing suspicion, particularly internecine conflicts and especially within capitals,' he muttered. Distressingly, Ginny shuddered beside me, but her face had reverted to a terrifyingly impassive mien.

'After the war,' he continued, 'the hunt to arrest collaborators ruined even more lives as that imbecile Perkins stoked the fires of mistrust to snatch power.'

'Like Hitler and Stalin,' I encouraged, receiving a beaming smile from Remus. Strangely, he looked almost professorial.

'Absolutely. Luckily, the Minister for Magic was able to curtail the worst excesses, but here...'

Wait a minute... _capitals?_ 'Where is _here_?'

'Ah, well...'

'We're in London, aren't we?'

'Yes, we're in London,' Ginny whispered gazing intently at her feet, avoiding using my name in case someone was able to penetrate whatever it was Hermione and the others had done to me.

Suspending my disbelief that we had travelled several hundred miles in an instant a short time before – not an easy thing to do – I wondered why neither Ginny nor Tonks bothered to reveal our destination.

Seeing Ginny's discomfort and my furrowed brow announcing a barrage of dangerous questions, Remus resumed his lecture. _He is, or was, a professor._

'...Here, because of Knockturn Alley (which was the resident no-go area and still the locale for those with nefarious intentions); the gaoling of many members of prominent families; the confiscation of those families' property, and; the lucrative opportunities to be gained from those misfortunes – however deserved they might have been – the people's paranoia hit its peak.' His voice had become progressively melancholic as he recited the dreadful fate of this wizarding high street. He coughed into a hankerchief of fine linen before persevering.

'Diagon Alley only truly reawakens around the start of each school year.' Suddenly, his dour countenance wavered and he graced us with a grin. 'Mind, it has gone seven and the clouds are threatening rain.'

Finally we reach the arch at the end of the narrow road. Though it was only a short distance from Gringotts, worrying about Ginny's injury and thinking about the questions my mind has raised over the past few days made the Alley seem much longer.

'The Leaky Cauldron,' Remus declared. He made his goodbyes, hugging Tonks and giving Ginny a paternal peck on the forehead.

Turning to me, his face contorted. Happiness and sorrow battled each other to a stalemate as we shook hands once more. 'We'll see each other soon,' he said. 'Hopefully under better circumstances.'

With that, he gave a sad laugh and set off back down Diagon Alley.

Tearing myself away from the retreating back of our erstwhile companion, I absorbed the ambiance of our latest exotic locale: the arse end of a pub, dustbins and all. _I could use a drink,_ I thought, _drown one headache with another._ Reality and a much more pressing concern took precedence. Fortunately, our dear dodgy guide was temporarily telepathic.

'Come on, you two,' Tonks said, nodding towards a rather battered wooden door. 'We'd best be off before they start to worry.'

_They:_ Ron and Hermione, I surmised correctly. Ginny wouldn't accept treatment from anyone but her sister-in-law. How he could travel from wherever we were in London to their flat in Bayswater, what with the crowd he was attracting, I had no idea. _Maybe he enjoys being spat out,_ I wondered. _Or that's something else Ginny isn't telling me._ At least it was an unimportant something.

I moved to follow Tonks into the Leaky Cauldron as she stood impatiently at the door, only to realise half of me remained firmly in place. Ginny had obstinately refused to budge from under the archway. Coughing faintly, her eyes shifted uneasily between forlorn glances trailing Mr Lupin down the Alley and chary glowers at Tonks in the doorway. With each cough and concomitant grimace, Ginny's agonised frown deepened, filling me with panic. Gingerly, I pulled her closer, placing my other hand on her cheek. I could feel the muscles tense as her jaw set.

Tonks's face creased with worry and befuddlement, mirroring mine. She made to speak, but Ginny waved aside whatever it was her boss had to say, along with my hand.

'Let's go,' Ginny muttered, glaring at the door. _She must have had some truly dreadful experiences here,_ I mused. _Either that or she's been barred._ I considered asking her, hoping to humour her. Ginny's countenance foretold grievous bodily harm to whoever would be so foolish. It reminded me so much of Fred's that night I tried to convince him I wasn't doing a runner on her. Behind the determination etched upon her mien was trepidation. Her gaze darted furtively everywhere but in my direction whilst her chin jutted unerringly ahead. _What else wasn't she telling me...?_

Once inside the Leaky Cauldron, I was struck once more by the absurdity of my situation and the strangeness of my environment. There, I was the curiosity – or would have been had it not been for the clothes Miss Prem had provided us. The interior appeared to have been taken from some BBC period piece set in the sixteenth- or seventeenth-century, if not before. It wasn't merely dark within, but so murky from cigar and pipe smoke that one might have assumed the dreaded London smogs of yesteryear had returned. Somehow, the light from a constellation of candles – a few of which were hanging in mid-air – pierced through the blue haze, offering sufficient illumination to reveal the pub's patrons.

To the uninitiated, such as me, it was astounding to witness such a broad clientele. The customers had clearly emerged from one of William Hogarth's works, or those of Hieronymus Bosch. Everyone was dressed either in robes, cloaks, or in fashions not seen in several hundred years. They engaged in strange but simple displays of what could only be called magic – tea cups stirring themselves with the least bit of supervision, re-arranging tables with the merest flick of a wand – blissfully unaware of how marvellous such conduct was, or how astonishing _they_ were.

In one booth near our entrance sat a group of what appeared to be dwarves, dressed in jerkins and aprons made of leather or another type of animal skin. They smoked a pungent substance that emitted vile green fumes from their curved pipes reminiscent of a U-bend and drank from tankards as large as their heads whilst vehemently discussing something in another tongue.

Another table played host to a troika of wizened old women garbed in heavy black cloaks. Hungrily, their beady, avaricious eyes swept the room as they flashed cruel, khaki-coloured smiles in anticipation. At their table rested a black cauldron heated by a small blue ball of flame dancing in a liquid-filled bowl. They drank from pewter mugs they immersed into the steaming vessel, unperturbed by the noxious seeming yellow-tinged plumes that rose ceiling-wards from its contents. I anxiously awaited the arrival of two Scottish lairds who would soon learn – and thereby beget – their fates. Despite the threesome's most fervent wishes, evinced by their gnashing teeth, they remained alone.

There were others who – in my ignorance – were odder still, causing me to gawp, mouth agape like a gormless idiot at the beings within that microcosm of Ginny's world. Meanwhile, I realised that they could not see me.

Whenever people looked at me, their eyes began to wander or lose focus. They could still _sense_ someone or something near them, but only in as much as one would recognise a bollard to avoid it. Therefore, it didn't matter what my appearance was, so long as that of my companions was altered. I was completely and utterly _safe_ – brazenly, soddingly, and _cowardly_ safe.

Graciously, she wrenched me from my revulsion and observations up to the bar proper, where we were greeted by a slightly hunch-backed gentleman with absolutely no dental hygiene. Self-pity speedily leapt from the bus.

'Tom,' Tonks began, shaking his hand to pull him to within muttering range at the crowded and boisterous bar. _Another bloody Tom._ 'We'd like two rooms, please, short duration.'

His eyes widened in aggrieved shock before narrowing to angry slits. 'We don't run that kind of place,' he growled, glaring at me, '_and we don't serve punters!_' His finger, which was remarkably clean, pointed vaguely but threateningly at me, daring me to contradict him as it dawned on me what he meant.

With a twitch of her nose, Tonks momentarily reverted to her usual appearance. 'Tom...'

Briefly, his eyes grew once more as a broad smile stretched across his face. 'My apologies, Madam, had I but known you were coming...,' Tom the barman swore as he guided us upstairs, replaced at the bar by a peculiar balding fellow apparently burdened with _ennui._

Having scaled the rickety stairway to the first floor, Tom handed Tonks a pair of keys that she repaid with a few large, thick gold coins. I looked to Ginny for an explanation, but she continued to stare directly in front of her, interrupted only by the occasional agonising wince.

That did it. _Witch or no witch, once we are in that room,_ I thought, _I will_ demand _to examine Ginny's rib._ Consequently, I wondered what life would be like as a toad – if she let me live long enough.

Ginny's governess took matters into her own hands. Liberating Ginny from my questionable stewardship using the wicked, 'Now, you don't wish to cause her further harm by jostling her, do you,' argument, Tonks postponed my first experience of cross-class transfiguration for a short while. 'We'll be back shortly,' she assured, tossing me the other key, flinching slightly at my glower.

Correctly assuming my room was the one opposite, I was confronted by a four poster bed upon which lay a carry bag filled with ordinary (for me, anyway) clothes. Inside were a lightweight jacket, a plain t-shirt, and jeans, whilst on the floor there was a pair of trainers. Ginny must have informed Hermione or whomever about my size, because everything fit disturbingly well. From force of habit, I neatly folded the vestments borrowed from Miss Prem's boutique and filled the bag once more, a process I found strangely dismaying.

To escape that feeling and a host of other odd thoughts passing through my mind, I rapidly left the room only to be greeted by the muffled sounds of Ginny and Tonks quarrelling. I caught the last phrase just as Tonks came barrelling out of the room, a strained smile crossing her face.

Her dress and hair were subdued, which seemed curiously out of place. Her grin unwittingly developed a disarmingly manic quality as she smoothed her black skirt, which only became more pronounced as my aspect grew dour.

'What did you mean, "You should have thought of that beforehand"?'

'Well...' She tried and failed to appear calm.

'Yes?' The urge to tap my foot like an impatient headmaster was almost overwhelming.

'Oh good!' she spluttered. 'You remembered to pack the carry bag. Sunita would be pleased,' she continued to blether, beaming at me. I was bewildered as to why was she so rattled, but I pressed onward.

'What was in that parcel, Tonks?' I demanded, staring deeply into her eyes, my frown deepening. I tried the same technique on Ginny once after she had been out all night, coming home looking dreadful and tired, scaring me half to death both by her absence and her appearance. Whereas Ginny simply glared back at me and snickered, 'Nice try', Tonks held my gaze somewhat dazedly. I was disgusted with myself, but I had to know.

'Answer my questions,' I prompted.

She was about to reply when she flinched, shaking off my glower and stumbling back a few steps. Surprised by her reaction, I dropped the bag and moved to assist her. Swatting my hands away, she peered anxiously at me, fearful and furtive. Hastily, she snatched the fallen bag and hurried downstairs.

A fresh wave of guilt crashed down upon me, but I was still furious for being kept in the dark. Those two disappointments collided into a low anguished groan.

'I know precisely how you feel,' Ginny said as she stood in the doorway of their room. 'Mind, my interrogation wasn't nearly so brusque.'

Ashamed of myself, I muttered an oath to my feet.

'Sorry, not in my present condition,' she gasped with a smirk, holding her arm protectively over her chest whilst leaning against the frame.

Though it pained me to see her in such distress, to have her standing there, with her own lovely face and that beautiful hair, in fitted trousers and a light pullover, made me immediately forget my other concerns.

'How is it?' I enquired, walking over to her.

Consenting to me, wrapping her arm over my shoulders, Ginny dissuaded any further attempts to suggest treatment with a scowl. 'Not now...'

Still, I insisted on some sort of reply. 'Is it much worse?'

She bit her lip – either to stifle a wounded moan or an understandably irascible retort, I've no idea – guiding me to the bed by gently applying pressure on my shoulder with her hand so she might rest until Tonks returned. Even the act of lying down caused her to gurn in agony.

'Don't even think it...' she whispered through clenched teeth, her eyes narrowing menacingly, a tiger ready to strike.

'Perhaps I should get Tonks,' I calmly suggested. The glare sharpened. 'You can't go like this,' I averred. Behind her tormented grimace, the precursor of tempestuous row brewed, until I lifted a few locks of her hair to demonstrate my point.

'_Oh...'_ With that, she relaxed for the first time since our brief stop at Miss Prem's.

There was, however, a significant obstacle in my plan. Who would look after Ginny when I left?

Ginny, as expected, dismissed my concerns. 'I'll be worse off if you don't go,' she yawned, gurning once more. 'I can lock the door from here, don't worry.'

I hate it when people ask the impossible of me.

'You'd best hurry before I hex you.' She even pointed her wand at me.

Acknowledging that I had, for the moment, lost the debate, I departed only to linger with my hand on the doorknob awaiting the joyous sound of the locks being engaged. That accomplished, I swiftly ducked downstairs for apologies and prodding.

Tonks had started drinking something, but I doubt whether any of it had touched her lips. She bore a distant look, her tankard forgotten halfway in its journey. When I tapped her lightly on the shoulder, she hopped about a foot off of her stool, spilling beer down her front and all over the bar, along with another muttered oath from my lips.

'I don't think Ginny would like that.' Tonks smiled at me, but that only made me feel worse. At least Tom was amused by our floor show as well.

In the midst of very profuse apologies about whatever it was I had done to her, I informed Tonks about Ginny's condition, which Tonks took as a signal to berate me for leaving our charge – 'Your fiancée!' – all alone, whilst I hissed my very sane excuse of not having a wand and being unable to perform magic anyway.

'What was I supposed to do if some more berks came 'round, stare them down and hope they leave?'

The reply to my quite valid query had to wait as we spent the next few minutes attempting to awaken Ginny. In the end, we conceded defeat, allowing Tonks to disguise Ginny's features one last time (hopefully).

Carrying a very groggy and now brunette Ginny between us, Tonks and I slipped through the early evening rush and onto...

'Charing Cross Road?'

I looked left. Down the road there was the record store I'd been in that day, and in front of us was the bollard, where...

'This was where I bumped into you...' Ginny emitted a sorrowful groan beside me.

My mind raced back to that day in December one-and-a-half years ago. At the time we collided, neither of us knew who the other was. Though an immensely talented actress on life's stage, her surprise and enthusiasm that day did not seem feigned – besides, she had thought I was dead – thereby leading me to discard the question, Did she know I was going to be here that day? and replacing it with, Did someone else know? That query offered one obvious possibility: Hermione.

When I glanced at Ginny's face, however, she was in no state to answer any queries. Her head was bowed and her eyes were closed tightly against memories of that day, which she tried to banish by constantly repeating that she hadn't known. Obviously, she hadn't much faith in my capacity for deductive reasoning.

Tonks joined in Ginny's gloomy assessment of my grasp on logic. My fellow crutch glowered at me to stop pestering her charge, only to receive an equally suspicious scowl in return. The uneasy _détente_ we had brokered in Haseltoun had collapsed under our unexpectedly conflicting agenda on safeguarding Ginny's welfare.

Our attitude toward one another didn't improve as we jostled our way through the foot traffic in search of transport. As we had in Haseltoun, we began exchanging barbs, albeit without the light-heartedness from before. Even so, we seemed to reach the stage at which some resolution was bound to occur when that cunning twit scarpered.

We were in mid-argument when we realised Ginny had stopped apologising and had begun glowering indiscriminately at passers-by before deciding once more I was the source of all of her grief. Maybe I was... In any case, _Madam_ Tonks and I, aware of the awakening volcano between us, quickened our pace only to have that dear creatrix of calamity stop suddenly in the middle of the pavement, nearly causing Ginny to tumble. As I looked daggers at Tonks, I saw her face fill with apprehension. Backing away from whatever it was had startled her, she motioned for us to take an alternate route. I was about to remind our dear governess that she was the only one of us able to still perform magic, but Ginny, in her half-awake, agony-addled state, decided we should row.

'We should bus it,' Ginny said in a particularly stroppy tone.

'No, we'll cab it,' I responded calmly.

We continued in this fashion for several minutes, blissfully failing to attract a crowd although we were annoyingly too pre-occupied to catch either a cab or bus. Finally, I'd had enough and half-directed, half-pulled her to a major thoroughfare until I, like Tonks, was distracted.

Ginny stumbled, wheezing and gurning in anguish as I abruptly halted at the sight. A figure emerging from the mists of time appeared in the midst of the early evening crowds, walking sedately towards us. A voice, heard so many times before, rang in my head. It couldn't have been, but it was.

'It can't be him...'

Dozy and worried, Ginny made a grab for her wand that I barely restrained in time. 'Who, where?'

'_There!'_ I answered, nodding in his direction. I simply couldn't believe it...

Seeing whom I indicated, her grey eyes – now, why couldn't Tonks have leave them the way they were? – grew geometrically as her wand arm relaxed. 'Dumbledore?' she mused.

'What?' I blurted, believing I hadn't heard her correctly. 'No,' I eventually replied, 'it's Tom Baker.' Seeing the bewildered look on her face, I continued. 'You know, the fourth Doctor...'

After a two minute discussion about _Doctor Who_ – during which I wisely avoided mentioning Siobhan who had introduced me to the programme – Ginny decided it was time to try to break one of my ribs with a well-aimed elbow. As I hunched over in breathless shock, she turned to rebuke me. In her rage, she had ignored her own injury, which was unkind enough (though perhaps not so to me) to remind her of its presence. Gasping in pain, she glared murderously at me. Fortunately, we were both saved from further harm by a minicab.

The short journey to Ron and Hermione's flat took an eternity... Ginny glared at me with such fervour – to which I responded with frowns of incomprehension – the driver didn't utter anything beyond asking our destination and telling us the fare. But at least she was awake and could manage, with assistance, the stairs to their floor.

We arrived shortly after that sneaky sod Tonks, who literally popped off soon after we had entered. Ginny couldn't break away from me fast enough to fall into Hermione's arms. I don't know whether it was my behaviour or her injury that propelled her quicker. Hermione and Ron appeared to view me sympathetically, though how long that would last was anyone's guess. With Ginny finally receiving some care, I felt some of the pressure ease.

I couldn't quite relax, however. From his tense grin and darting eyes, it was apparent Ron wanted to talk to me about something inconveniently important. His discomfort led me to smile uneasily back, the first sign of a burgeoning panic. Wisely, he suggested we partake in a casual drink before he began.

When I was first in this flat, I had been much too nervous to observe their furnishings properly. For instance, I hadn't noticed there was neither telly nor Playstation in the sitting room, only an old wireless set and a small stereo system that appeared to have been a few decades old. All of those headaches must have clouded my mind as only then was I finally able to infer the obvious: magic wreaks havoc on electrics. The electric coffee pot, the toaster, the telephone, that laptop...

'Sorry, Harry, I'm a married man,' Ron said nonchalantly as he handed me a bottle.

I really must learn to stop cursing, but it did lighten the mood.

The proffered bottle remained unopened in my hand whilst Ron took no pains to uncork his. I was slowly becoming chary of new experiences. For starters, the bottle was peculiar, with corks sealed with yellow wax in place of metal caps. A narrow ribbon of yellow silk was affixed to the bottle and cork by a signet in sealing-wax adorned with the initials _MRC_. Fine, to refuse a drink from one's future brother-in-law because it looked odd was a silly, if not disastrous, thing to do. Yet it was not simply the vessel nor its temperature that alarmed me most, but the contents themselves.

'Butterbeer?' I parroted, my face twitching with a bemused grin. I had believed I had misunderstood him, but his gape-mouthed display of dismay informed me otherwise. Within the deep recesses of my ransacked memory there was an image of Tibetans drinking fermented horse milk. The concept of drinking fermented milk brought a shudder. To that thought was appended a tale told by my history master at grammar school, that of Henri IV's obligatory conversion before being crowned King of France: 'Paris is worth a mass.' Whilst both the recollection and the story might have been apocryphal, their message was sound. (_Strange, the things one supposedly remembers..._)

'Don't be a wanker, Harry,' Ron chided with a shake of the head. 'Drink it.'

Not wanting to make a bigger prat of myself than I already had, I did. And it was good.

'Merton's Rutland Cream,' he smiled. 'Best in England. 'Course, I'm biased.'

'Why's that?' I enquired casually, encouraging him to be indiscreet.

He played ignorant, something at which he was quite talented. Except for the faintest blush appearing on his ears...

Rather than allowing me to ask another question, he distracted me with one of his own. 'Why did it take you so long to ask my sister to marry you?' with the emphasis on my sister.

I wittered on about University, my financial situation (causing his ears to redden further), well, basically what I had told Fred the other night. Anxiety created a drought in my mouth that I tried in vain to alleviate with the butterbeer, succeeding only in aggravating my headache. Ron wasn't paying attention to my words, however. He was looking at my face as if expecting to see someone else, a Harry who could recognise him. He gathered the courage to ask his question just as Ginny raced to the loo, followed closely by an agitated Hermione. Having had enough mystery for one night and not wanting to be left out, I joined the pursuit with Ron trailing behind telling me not to worry.

'Not to sodding worry?' I hissed, briefly ignoring the hammering in my head. 'She's been on edge these past few days, and you tell me to sit serenely by as she goes mad? What kind of brother are you?'

Judging from Ron's purple face and Hermione's stammering, as well as my own sense of decency, it was the wrong thing to say. Still, Hermione seemed almost impressed. A glower from her, mixed with assurances she would set the world to right, swiftly put an end to our male bonding ritual and ushered us back into the sitting room.

'Sorry,' we muttered. I noticed Ron looked as guilty as I felt, so I decided for both of our sakes not to press the issue.

In the awkward silence that followed, I observed that many of the walls were lined with books.

'What is it that you do?' I pondered.

His face quivered with barely suppressed elation. Based on his frame and his handshake, he must be quite active. His reaction revealed he enjoyed his profession, so I was surprised he didn't answer. Still angry with myself for my latest attempt to alienate Ginny's family, I decided not to pry. Ron, however, was under no such restrictions.

'What did you do at, er, that university thingie?'

When I explained again about what I had read at University and what it had entailed, he chortled. 'But you were crap at Potions.'

'So Ginny showed me,' I answered, describing how she had told me about us.

'She did right by you,' he swore. 'And you, her.' He smiled sadly and sat down. Gladly, I followed suit.

Chagrin crept across his visage once more as he finally asked me the question that had been bothering him. 'Do you remember me at all?'

I didn't know what to say. Even so, the words burbled out of me. 'I recall you having a go at me.' His eyes widened in shock and disbelief. 'Because of Ginny.'

Ron groaned and rolled his eyes. 'Was it in our sixth year?' I nodded. He shook his head and moaned again.

'I don't blame you...' I began, only to realise he was snickering.

'Ginny nearly killed me for that,' he laughed. 'She fancied you, but she was terrified…' His voice wavered as his eyes darted nervously to the sitting room window.

'Of what?' Just then, the feeling of something trying to extract my eyes with a dull spoon assailed me. Bright spots blinkered my vision, but I kept peering at him for as long as I could.

'I don't know,' he shrugged, or at least I think he did. From the tone of his voice, he was being honest.

I wanted to ask him several questions, such as whether or not he knew I had survived that night. Given that Hermione had been involved in the process, it didn't take an immense leap to surmise Ron had been party to my 'treatment' as well. And if that was the case, I might be able to discover how to rid myself of _these buggering migraines._ In the meantime, I tried to appear relaxed and not to succumb to the urge to boak.

Ginny and Hermione's return saved us both from pretending either of us was comfortable. Both women appeared as though they had been through the wars, which perhaps they had. Ginny seemed to recognise my symptoms directly. She placed a hand to my forehead. Indistinctly through the glare of strobing flashes affecting my vision, I saw her peer into my eyes. In the distance, I heard her suggesting I have a bit of a lie-down, to which Hermione concurred whilst twittering some well-meaning but utterly superfluous advice. Ginny bore such guidance good-naturedly, although the tensing of her hands as she directed me out of the sitting room belied her calm.

Still, it was Ron who enlightened us about a more pressing predicament. Tonks had informed him that Babbage was planning a visit to the flat. And, at that very moment, just as in some poorly crafted film noir, we heard a car pull up to the kerb. The other three drew their wands at once, leading me to fall in an unceremonious heap onto Ron and Hermione's (tastefully and thankfully carpeted) hardwood floor.

'Ow.'

'Sorry, Harry,' Ginny whispered with a barely suppressed laugh. Bet she thought it was sufficient payment for harranguing her about her rib. At least it took my mind off my headache. Ron was snickering as well. _At least Hermione's tutting at them to be quiet,_ I thought, until she started as well. Ah, family.

The brief instant of levity was quickly broken by Ron, who, with my slightly less blurry eyes, was peering surreptitiously out the window. 'Er, Ginny, perhaps you and Harry should go now.'

'I'm not leaving,' Ginny snarled, wand at the ready.

'It's Shacklebolt,' Ron muttered.

'See you at the rendezvous,' she said hastily. Muttering a swift spell, she lifted me into a standing position and thrust another book into my hand.

'No, not again…'

Which brings me to where I am now.

**

* * *

Next: Ginny & Harry, Babbage's tea party, and travel... This chapter should be completed by 27 June. **


	21. The Wedding Present, Part 2

**A/N:** Apologies to those readers who haven't quite finished with HBP yet. There is a brief spoiler to which I refer obliquely in one segment. The story is otherwise unaltered from its original course. My apologies that this chapter isn't up to my usual standards.

**There and Back Again Lane**

Ch. 21 – The Wedding Present, Part Two: Wrong Place, Right Time

_Someone must have been telling lies about Joseph K., for he awoke from his bed to find himself arrested one fine morning._

—Franz Kafka, 'The Arrest,' _The Trial_

* * *

**England**  
---(Ginny's POV)---

This day will be the death of me if I'm not careful. At the very least, I'll be sporting a few more blonde locks, if not white ones, before Harry's finally set right. _If he can be set right._ Ah, the triumph of positive thinking.

As if the day hadn't begun poorly enough, what with Harry's persistent headaches. Either he's not the hardy young man he was at Hogwarts – which, considering the absence of potentially life-threatening lessons in Muggle schools (or so Harry 'remembers'), is entirely probable – or the pain must be excruciating. Unfortunately, I don't think he's simply grimacing with every little twinge. _My_ Harry mightn't be as accustomed to grave injury as _ours_ was, yet his determination to walk in Haseltoun and to delve into as much of his past as he could with Ron evinced my lover's strength, daft sod that he is. Stoic fools of the world, unite, OK. Or something like that.

Yet our troubles couldn't simply end there, could they? No, then I had to suffer my own little accident – all right, blunt force trauma – at the Silver Knut. I quite liked it there, before those berks broke through its lovely window. Then I had to suffer Harry fretting and clucking over me like a mother hen, as if I need another Hermione in my life, thank you. So, it was sort of sweet in a nagging, overly concerned way, and perhaps I did consider receiving some Muggle first aid from him, though maybe that thought was simply due to the pain and my growing confusion. Seeing his face properly again at the Leaky Cauldron was almost my downfall, but eventually he came to his senses and stopped asking, the prat.

I still don't know whether I locked the door. I must have, or else Harry wouldn't have left me alone...

He wouldn't have needed to if Tonks and I hadn't argued about that sodding package. Now I know that it concerns Harry, though what it is precisely Hermione won't say. In any case, Tonks left our room to find him before settling arrangements with Tom, only to find my dear man was in the corridor all ready. I don't believe Harry truly understood what he did as he attempted some inadvertent Legilimency on her. Sleep-deprived, distracted, and unaware of the degree to which Harry's magical nature was reasserting itself, Tonks was caught off guard momentarily. Her reaction shocked him as much as his attack surprised her, allowing her to escape with her secret intact. I was shocked he had done such a thing, though I could fathom why he did it.

My sympathy for my beloved mentor evaporated when she abandoned us without a word on Charing Cross Road. There she was, one second helping me along, and then the next, she was gone, leaving Harry to bear the brunt of my misdirected anger. That's something else about which no one has decided to inform me, although Hermione has intimated that all will soon be revealed. At times I wonder how old she thinks I am, though regarding Tonks's disappearance Hermione might not know the entire story, either.

Then Harry and I had a lovely cab ride through London, right after he unintentionally tormented me when he recognised some Muggle Healer who, for whatever reason, also narrates a television programme. (Maybe there aren't many Galleons in Muggle medicine.) Eerily, he _did_ look like a beardless Dumbledore. Still, that's scarcely an excuse for Harry to terrify me half to death first, but I suppose scowling and snarling at him all the way to Ron and Hermione's flat was sufficient punishment.

And as if the day hadn't been wretched enough, Hermione and I took an edifying journey through the golden years of my life. No need to travel down that path again, thank you very much. Luckily, she had healed my broken ribs beforehand, else the retching might have caused me some serious injury.

One would have thought that was enough to ruin a person's day. Alas, no. Ron and Hermione received a visit from the governor, my governor to be precise. Once I heard his name I scrambled to lift Harry – after I had unceremoniously dropped him upon hearing Kingsley had arrived – and Hermione, clever witch that she is, provided me with the necessary Portkey.

An old saying goes, 'Misery loves company.' Well, Harry and I certainly accompanied each other through misery today, especially after that second Portkey. At least the jaunt remedied his unnatural pallor, unfortunately with an equally unwelcome sickly green. Yet it did not take me long to clear the room and seat him safely and with some comfort until Hermione came to examine him properly.

Despite Ron's bitter defence of their Axminster ('You would have thought differently after your wife and future offspring had plunged to their deaths!' – Hermione always had a find grasp on guilt, not that Ron was ever truly swayed), they arrived in Kingsley's – all right, Mr Shacklebolt's – Ministry car several hours later, due to her understandably cautious driving. I was in the midst of clearing the rest of the wing when I heard Harry's alarmed awakening. Ignoring my Sneakoscope's lack of movement, I catapulted to his rescue only to collide with Ron, thereby succeeding where all of our 'safe-house's' death traps had failed. I emerged with a bloodied nose, and Ron with a bruised chin. We would have laughed if he could without grimacing and I hadn't been bleeding everywhere.

Finally, Ron and I had vetted as much of that building as we dared without either a brief kip or some food before venturing off to collect the other two. Hermione, or so I thought, was about to inform me about her side of our disjointed plan to rid the Ministry of Perkins and to bring _our_ Harry back to us. Instead, just as I'd arrived where I'd left Harry, she barrelled from the room like a scalded kneazle. (Which reminds me, where is Crookshanks?)

Apparently, my dear sister-in-law was equally unsettled by my lover's circumstances. She had surprisingly and impetuously blundered into commenting on Harry's unfortunate familiarity with Destiny. He, understandably, had sought to learn what she had meant, though wisely without attempting further surface Legilimency as he had on Tonks. _I wonder if my mentor has recovered by now?_ His avoidance of that latent skill was probably in deference to her 'fragile' condition, although some residual self-disgust after what had happened in the Leaky Cauldron remained as well. Luck smiled on him then: pregnant or not, Harry or not, she would have blasted him out of that chair had he used that particular talent upon her.

After she had scurried from the room, I restored the situation with a perfunctory reprimand to Harry. (Well, I replied to his statements with sarcasm.) As one might expect, it was incredibly difficult to behave professionally when one's best mate has just been scared off by one's lover, especially since the former was one's sister-in-law who had been harping on about telling him about his past. Despite my barbèd tongue, he tried to elicit further information from me. Those seductively inquisitive green eyes, unsettlingly so at times like those, prompting me to answer, and truthfully at that... Remus had warned me Harry's mother's eyes were equally dangerous to the would-be liar, having the effect on Harry's father Dumbledore had hoped naming Remus as a prefect would achieve.

I assisted Harry up to a large first floor bedroom, avoiding his questions as we went, thereby saving him from an even worse headache and me from questions I might not be able to answer. Once there, a further battle of wills ensued. Both Harry and I wanted me to rest so that I might recuperate properly, yet we wanted to learn precisely what had happened to him five years ago. In the end, Harry resolved that I should rest whilst I decided to badger Ron and Hermione with queries of my own. Since I was still standing, albeit barely, curiosity won out over concern and temptation: Harry would rest whilst the family convened to discuss his past, present, and future.

Ron and Hermione waited for me in a ground floor reading room facing the back garden, clutching hands to ward off some anticipated calamity, seated upon a divan of Welsh Green dragonskin and mahogany, its feet carvered in the likeness of those of the upholstery's former occupant. They obviously expected me to make an explosive entrance. I did toy with the idea... Instead, I toured the room, with its now empty shelves that had once been laden with tomes on the Dark Arts, genealogical studies, Ministry lists, and other such drivel, examined the lecturn facing the door from which chains still dangled before alighting on a tête-à-tête opposite the lovely couple.

What many people over the years had failed to grasp was that Hermione could be quite threatening when riled. She could also be unusually indiscreet. The problem was, and is, dancing upon the very edge of being berated and brow-beaten into submission – particularly with Ron in attendance – or of having her craftily reverse our respective positions. But who would play black?

_Ah, well, if needs must,_ I thought, _I'll do the honours._ 'Brother, sister,' I began calmly, smoothing my robes over my genteelly crossed my legs to soothe my nerves and unravel theirs. 'What did Mr Shacklebolt have to say?'

Ron reacted as I might have expected. He relaxed when I enquired about my governor using his surname (a sop to Hermione), slumping back a bit in the divan whilst sighing in relief. Hermione, however, exhaled a subtle snort of disbelief as she stared warily into my eyes. _Harry has a lot to teach her about amateur Legilimency,_ I thought, _though she has enough skill to make a good mother._ Given the situation, I was surprised that my brother answered first.

'He's not very happy,' Ron said with a smirk. 'He's worried that you forced his hand too soon.'

From his jacket, Ron removed two leaves of parchment I recognised instantly: an order of suspension and a summons to a disciplinary hearing. I accepted both without comment, perusing them dispassionately as Hermione intensified her gaze.

What had any of them imagined I would say? Kingsley's words bore some truth in them. Matters had accelerated beyond my personal control, yet I was certain I could arrest them, given time. More troubling were the condemnation hidden within that phrase – 'forcing his hand' – and the two documents held before me.

Indeed, it was infuriating. What had my boss thought I would do when Harry asked for my hand? I wasn't about to refuse him because of politics, particularly not for some damn junior minister with far more ambition and avarice than brains. Perhaps I ought to have told my superiors about having met Harry – the enchantment would have permitted nothing more – but I thought, and think, that events have shown my lover's continued secrecy was the correct course.

How Kingsley could think of blaming me for our troubles with the Perkins's minions in Edinburgh was maddening. Could I have predicted that Fred and Ange's owl, Albus (which, for whatever reason, they insist on calling Bertie), would not only reveal I was under surveillance but that Harry and I knew about it as well? _Weasley major and I will have to have a chat about his owl's familial tea-time appetite._ According to the Head of the Auror Office, yes. Still, I thought Harry, Tonks, and I did quite well considering, and the goblins must have been distracting Perkins and Babbage somewhat.

Tossing the two pieces of parchment onto the cherry wood coffee table between us, suppressing a childish shudder at its legs eerily shaped like those pillars in the Chamber of Secrets, I peered into their eyes that I knew and, despite our many disagreements, loved so well. 'Who else was with him?' Shacklebolt never travelled by Ministry car except when absolutely necessary, and only if others were accompanying him.

The suddenness of my query dismayed Ron and Hermione. Their responses demonstrated it had been the question they had been dreading. Both of his hands clenched abruptly causing them both to wince as Hermione glanced momentarily out at the hedgerow maze. With his wife feigning distraction, he decided to answer.

'Well, Tonks,' Ron answered, slightly agitated, his free hand now fidgeting. The corners of Hermione's mouth drooped a miniscule distance whilst her eyes conveyed the ardent wish for me not to pressurise either of them for further details. Why could they not tell me, and did they know why my mentor had abandoned us in London? In the end, I resolved to reveal my bosses' fellow travellers first.

'Who else accompanied them?'

'It's of no immediate import,' she retorted conclusively. 'Needless to say, they will all be essential to the plan's success.'

A smirk cracked my otherwise glacial mien. 'Essential but unimportant,' I pondered, turning my head towards the great bay windows offering a gorgeous view of rural Wiltshire whilst my gaze remained intently upon the two. 'How _fashionable._'

Puzzled, Ron raised an eyebrow. Hermione's eyes, however, narrowed in irritation. I could tell she was assessing my possible reactions to the truth and felt little comfort in her deductions. It was equally evident to me that neither of them would tell me who had accompanied my superiors without further prodding.

'And what might be this plan of which you have decided to keep me blissfully ignorant?' I enquired, peering at them directly once more. Ron struggled to find the words to dissuade me whilst Hermione had taken to looking bewildered. 'You realise, Ron, that I'm no longer twelve and cannot be shunted from the train compartment.' I paused briefly to allow the memory of that petty humiliation to form in his mind.

'But we are only in the process of devising our scheme,' she admitted, wholly disrupting my line of questioning. 'Ever since we had received our parcels from Remus.'

'Parcels?' I blurted, suspecting Tonks's little secret would finally be revealed. And it was, in the guise of something wrapped in heavy brown paper secured by string.

Tearing it open swiftly like a present, I was as quickly dumbfounded. 'Er...' See?

'Quite,' they parroted whilst I continued to read, my hands beginning to shake and my teeth gnashing in bitter fury. Having been forced to comb through mountains of parchment written in like bureaucratic idiom in my brief career, it wasn't the words themselves that alternately baffled and enraged me, but the thought processes behind them.

At page ten any professional detachment I had left had been cudgelled into submission. I stood and glowered at that maze with such ferocity it might have combusted in the late spring air. _If ever I get my hands on those bloody Obliviators..._

I caught Hermione staring at me nervously and noticed those very hands balled into fists at my sides. 'How could you let them do that to him?' I demanded, peering into her eyes, searching for any lie though knowing none would be found.

'I doubt even the Obliviators knew how arduous the recovery process would be,' she replied calmly.

'That's because they never expected him to recover!' I growled.

'But we didn't suspect he would have to suffer so, either,' Hermione pleaded, glancing at Ron for further support.

'Harry should hear this,' I muttered, continuing to glower at them. But she didn't relent.

Instead, she took my hand. 'Not this way, Ginny,' she murmured. 'Not now. He should learn what was done to him from all of us.'

'Did you know those bastards,' – she tutted angrily at the word, but I ignored it – 'convinced him that he was responsible for his parents' death?'

Hermione drew back, her face contorted by a sorrowful smile. 'Fred would be pleased.'

'Don't say that.'

She sat beside my brother in that grotesque, green dragonskin divan before me and bade me to take a seat myself. 'Ron told me about what happened when your father was attacked in your fourth year.' It was his turn to look distractedly out of the giant bay windows onto the back garden.

_Where was she headed?_

'How you and the Twins suspected Harry's involvement from the beginning.'

_Ron never seemed that perceptive before._ My mouth gaped as I sought the words to defend myself.

'I don't blame you, Ginny,' she interrupted my silent retort. 'I would have felt the same had it been my father lying in hospital.' With a flick from her wand, a chair glided silently from the corner of the room next to where she was sitting. Politely, she motioned me to come closer and grasped my hand. 'And when tragedy struck again...'

Harry ran, he couldn't bear to look me in the eye, until I forced him. The truth is, I _did_ hold him partly responsible for Mum's death. The two of them had been too bloody stubborn for her own good. As Hermione and I are now.

'He was terrified of losing you,' Hermione said, adding, 'and Ron.' I issued a disparaging snort. She continued none the less. 'He cared for you a great deal, then. Thinking he had lost you two as well as your mum drove him mad with despair.'

'You still haven't answered my question,' I finally responded.

She looked at our entwined hands, seemingly amazed by their similarities and differences, carefully concealing her own wedding ring. 'Not until after I had found other records in St Mungo's.'

Ron, who had been strangely silent during that sisterly exchange, gave her other hand a gentle squeeze. With that encouragement, her head rose, cheeks glistening with tears. 'You don't know how truly sorry I am,' she pleaded. Her voice quavered piteously, causing my hand to slip from hers as I stood once more.

I had to get out of that room. No longer was I furious with her about what I had believed she had done to Harry, but sensed her unbearable helplessness and guilt.

Witnessing my growing agitation, a distressed Ron proposed I leave the parcel with them for the moment to rest a bit. He was probably concerned I was seconds away from venturing off to confront Perkins and Babbage, as well as asking my dear sister-in-law herself some fairly searching questions. Grateful for an excuse to avoid a family row at that delicate stage, I complied wearily with his suggestion.

Incensed, I was certain sleep would be a long time coming, yet I marched to where I had left Harry. The injustice of what had been done to him, to _us_, sank deeper with each footfall. Thankfully, I had sufficient presence of mind not to translate that discomfort physically, my movements remaining silent. Creeping cautiously into the room, I disrobed noiselessly and slid under the bedclothes next to him, determined to strategise better for my next question period.

Of course, I was asleep within seconds.

I had no idea how long I had been asleep when the old nightmare returned to me. The fires were still ablaze, the ground broken, trees shattered and wailing unsubdued as I cautiously advanced through the battlefield. With great reluctance, I avoided Hermione's miserable celebration over Harry's mangled body and went straight for that of our foe. Charred beyond recognition, he lay there with four inches of the shining blade still protruding from his belly, immobile. My peripheral vision caught a sudden movement. Wand drawn, I strode with determination to a shattered tree mere feet away.

'Show yourself, walking corpse!' I commanded, glaring at the humbled pine daring it to grow additional branches.

For a moment all was silent. Then that wretched sniffing and a sibilant sneer emerged from its refuge in the boughs. 'You brought the stench of it with you.' He scrambled down the scorched bark to coil at the bottom. Those beady red eyes narrowed and glared at me. 'And of _him._'

'Struggling towards reincarnation now, Tom?' I growled. 'Have prospects to become a Red Cap?'

Wandless, he spat at me.

'Manners, Tom,' I retorted. 'Remember in whose mind you reside?'

He bared his teeth and pointed a sharp claw at me. 'I possessed you once, little one!' Then, to my surprise, his lamentable excuse for a face regained its former smugness. 'Twice, really.'

'More than that, Tom,' I admitted. 'But never again.'

Again with that horrid high-pitched twittering. 'No, Ginevra, only twice,' he hissed. 'Oh dear stupid girl, it wasn't me who saved you, but...'

Suddenly, an odd greenish light distracts us, allowing him to scarper and the dreamscape to shift to something infinitely more mundane.

_Whomever tried to wake me will receive such a tongue-lashing._

Yet I fell asleep once more.

Some time later, without even raising an eyelid, I register a pair of green eyes peering at me. Harry has the temerity to give me a sheepish grin, saving me the need to berate him for his earlier misdeed. Behind that grin is a grimace of worry. I suspect what might be the cause. 'Is it what happened with Tonks?'

'And Hermione.'

I assure him he needn't be concerned about either my sister-in-law or my mentor. 'You caught them both off guard,' I conclude soothingly.

'You didn't see Tonks's face,' he mutters.

'Yes, I did.' I might not have caught a complete view of the shock she had undergone, but enough of a glimpse to witness how disorientating Harry's little surprise had been. 'You didn't know what you were doing.'

'But I'd known what I had intended to do,' he grumbles. His eyes are filled with shame, yet stern, unwilling to escape the guilt. After what feels like an eternity, he rolls onto his back, peering at the roof of the four-poster bed. 'There's no way I can be normal again, is there?'

The temptation to say, 'Well, if you're brooding again, you are normal,' is overwhelming, but I ignore it for the moment. Instead, I rest my head on his chest and tell him the truth about what he had done, reassuring him once more Tonks would be all right, and what he was becoming. 'To conclude, Mr Harry bloody Potter, like it or not, you are a sodding wizard and your hair will never stay down again.'

With that last rejoinder, he snickers and embraces me. 'Well, there's one mystery solved.'

'You just need to learn some control,' I whisper. 'And I don't mean that rubbish you sometimes put in your hair. Makes me sneeze.'

He swears off hair gel and glowering intently at friends and family as I curl into him and purr with contentment, revelling in his scent. But question period hasn't ended. He then asks me why I scuttled away from him during our row concerning Draco in Haseltoun. Do I dare tell him the truth? He doesn't seem likely to be dissuaded this time. This time...

'It wasn't Tom you reminded me of that day,' I murmur. 'At least, not directly, but you.' Harry places a hand on my cheek, softly caressing my skin, his thumb erasing the trail of tears winding down my face. I lean into it, not knowing why he is being so patient save that he loves me.

His other hand covers mine. The gesture is both comforting and imposing, telling me he's not afraid of what I might say, but that I'm to stay until I've told him the truth. His eyes implore me not to hide any longer.

'I was reminded of the night you kissed me,' I whisper, staring at our hands entwined on the bedclothes. 'When I told you of my vision of your death.'

Harry is unnerved by that revelation. I can see a host of queries in his eyes, each struggling desperately to be the first. Still, aware of my peculiar vulnerability, he asks only the simplest one. 'Do you regularly have visions?'

'No, I've only ever had the one.' It is something that strikes me as terribly odd as well, particularly since no one else in the family seems, or was, gifted with any insight other than for trouble-making.

His disconcerted expression likely matches my own. 'Isn't that sort of, er, unusual?'

'You obviously have forgotten your divination professor.'

Harry smiles at that, acknowledging that is something else that will be beyond his ken for a while longer. 'So, when does my re-education begin, Professor Weasley?'

Tomorrow, for tonight we play.

* * *

**Ministry of Magic, London**  
Corridors between Babbage and Perkins's offices  
---(Babbage's POV)---

  
Elated, I almost glide through the Ministry on the wave of exultation brought by our renewed surveillance about to recommence on the Weasley-Granger flat. Only through sheer experience do I stifle the blissful shout of _We have her!_ – or _them, _really – and simply march down the corridors to the junior minister's offices with the measured decorum of a high official. Though we have no hard evidence against that wretched Granger (or Weasley, whatever!) harpy, and that harridan Clarke maintains her flobberworm impression, I am certain she is responsible for removing the Potter Order from the Archives. Obtention of that Order is a direct contravention of the Wizarding Official Secrets Act (1942), which, thanks to Emergency Order Number Thirty-five, covers not only Ministry employees, but those employed by attached agencies and their immediate relatives as well. And since the Official Secrets Act is a binding magical contract, whether signed or not (blessed Order Thirty-five!), it will be easy to verify the Weasleys' non-compliance. 

There is, perhaps, the threat that Mrs Too-Clever-by-Half will concoct some means by which they could circumvent the contract, thereby enabling her to disclose the thinking of the Minister of State and the Department at the time, and possibly, being the foul little bushy-haired creature she is, uncover the purpose – however veiled – behind Potter's Obliviation. She might even be able to cross-reference to certain texts needed to prove our position on his treatment and that of Miss Weasley, which proved our foresight, in light of hindsight, to be erroneous. But the frighteners, or _inspection team,_ I should say, should be able to find those documents before any such tampering could occur.

When I enter Minister Perkins's main office, she returns my grin with one exuding equivalent joy. She hands me the necessary warrant for their premises, signed in her barely legible scrawl. I am even granted the pleasure of being there personally to witness the Weasleys' embarrassment. Neither of us can await the arrival of the Department's surprise inspection team, bearing with it a reminder of Emergency Order Number Thirty-seven, still in effect after all these years: 'No wizard nor witch may accost or otherwise interfere with Ministry officials and officers in the lawful performance of their duties.' Given what abominably grotesque jinxes the boffins in the Department devised around the Official Secrets Act after those first war years, it is highly unlikely either Mr or Mrs Weasley would be able to refuse our intrusion in any case. Yet the best thing is that Mr Weasley's demonic sister is still trapped in Haseltoun with that imbecile Tonks. It is for days like this I became a Ministry official.

Nearly dancing from my minister's offices, I reflect upon little Miss Weasley's situation. She, and that Tonks woman, had likewise acted against Order Thirty-seven and quite likely the Statute for Secrecy. Furthermore, they had aroused the suspicions of the local populace and the Department has subsequently declared them to be Death Eaters in possession of a Muggle. Then one needs to factor in property damage, damage to public confidence, and, if we can generate enough journalistic outrage, we might even be able to force Shacklebolt to charge them with disobeying orders.

On the negative side, the local plod had managed to aggravate the goblins, which is always very dangerous, and Headmaster Flitwick has regrettably been made aware of Misses Weasley and Tonks's flight. I fear that they may have brought along _him_ as well. Still, once they are ejected from Gringotts of Haseltoun, as they inevitably will be, the Metamorphmagus and her wounded companion, possibly the other one too, will be subdued quickly and brought to trial so swiftly there will be nothing either Shacklebolt or even Minister Bones could do to save them. The two Aurors might be as dangerous as rats trapped in a corner, but the Department has several prides of hit wizards ready to feast upon them. Even so, I can't wait to re-enter my office for a quick run-through of Miss Weasley's file for her upcoming court date.

_Oh hell and buggery._ It's not there. After fervently hunting around my office for a half-hour, I'm forced to conclude it is one-hundred percent positively _not there._ Perhaps Mistress Clarke secured it, as she is wont to do at times, considering it was three weeks overdue.

Pell-mell I scurry through the corridors to the lift down to the Ministry Archives, scaring junior and senior officials alike with a scowl unseen since Adalberd Holbourne, or that Rackharrow fellow. My foot taps a nerve-wracking tattoo that frightens even a pair of Unspeakables armed with a small package out into the lobby.

Eventually, I burst into the haven of that desiccated, decrepit raven Elspeth Clarke. Almost breathless from rage and running I demand to see Miss Weasley's file at once.

'You have it, don't you?' the crone cackles, producing the Book of Requests before my eyes. 'Or did you lose that as well, you festering canker.' When I fail to conjure a satisfactory reply, she chortles revealing her remaining repulsively tanned teeth. 'Oh, you are in very serious trouble now, Burblage, especially considering how long ago it was due.'

Flinging myself as quickly as I can from that dimly-lit dungeon back into the lift to avoid hearing that voice any longer, I notify Minister Perkins of that latest disappearance.

At first, the foul little beast is entirely dismissive. 'Well, all it says is that she was mad in her last year at Hogwarts and went mad during Auror training; what harm could that do us?' the fool Hufflepuff declared. Then I explain how thorough that file is, or was. It details not simply those moments that give us justifiable reasonable cause to sack her when taken separately, but the rest of her story as well, with all of the connections and suppositions made my St Mungo's staff before we in the Department had decided upon _her_ treatment, including several damaging documents by sodding St Dumbledore, as he's known in these parts.

'How could you have been so stupid as to lose that!' she exclaims, continuing on with a welter of other nastiness questioning my competence on all matters from tying my shoes to being able to write in cursive letters. When she demands that a detachment from the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol examine my office for the document's whereabout I inform her that she was escaping reason and cavorting with insanity. Failing to bring her back to earth with that comment, I slam my fist on her desk, startling her back into reality.

'Right then, Minister,' I intone. 'Who do we think took the first set of papers?' I say, holding up the warrant to search the Weasleys' flat for the Potter Order. If necessary, I even consider bringing in a pantomime troupe to act our conundrum out for her, yet surprisingly she understands the inference from the beginning. I advise Perkins that I will be gathering the frighteners – the inspection team, that is – for an immediate investigation of that residence. To further bolster her confidence in me, I present to her a list of witnesses to Miss Weasley's episodes of insanity taken from her file, noting that we should provide official summons to all of them as soon as possible, particularly since it will take too long for the surveillance to bear fruit should the frighteners fail to uncover anything.

'Are you certain this will work?' she blethers as I exit her office.

'Of course, Minister.'

My certainty is, needless to say, an act. Presently, I am trying to devise the means by which I can leave the country unobserved should this little foray into Muggle London not succeed. Though it is unusual for officials to take the blame for their minister's mistakes, it is always possible in this dangerous post-War era to be a part of an ever-growing list of exceptions. Even so, I think we will arrive soon enough to catch Mrs Smart-arse and Idiot Husband unawares.

When we arrive outside the flat, its lights are on and people are inside. My operatives, with those wonderful Extendable Ears purchased from another Weasley (I do adore irony), confirm that at least two people, a man and a woman, are within. We stealthily climb the stairs to the door and knock, wands at the ready, only to have the door open and hear an oddly familiar voice welcome us inside. Cautiously following the voice into the sitting room, I am confronted with my worst nightmare.

I splutter uncouthly in recognition of those sitting before me, sipping tea as if it was any afternoon, although their wands are drawn as well. There is Kingsley Shacklebolt, Head of the Auror Office, silly gold earring and all, smiling a goblin before a gold mine. Across from him is Nymphadora Tonks, who is supposed to be in Edinburgh (when I get my hands on that fool in Haseltoun...), feigning surprise. Behind her sits the beetle of doom, Rita Skeeter, scribbling away with her acid green Quick Quotes Quill under the watchful spectacled eyes of the fourth member of that group.

'Weatherby,' I chunter.

'That's Weasley, Babbage,' the fourth man utters as he rises. Now that he mentions it, he _does_ look vaguely familiar. 'And this,' he states flicking open a piece of parchment, 'is an order from the Minister for Magic herself for the immediate release of all documentation on or relating to the Obliviation of Mr Harry James Potter, formerly of Number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.'

_Bugger._

* * *

**Borneo, Sarawak**  
---(Draco's POV)---

Rumours are arriving from abroad. Strange, unbelievable tales come from England about that wretched cow Perkins. Maybe I shall be able to return home one day... I'm almost filled with hope.

One might ask why I, Draco Malfoy, heir to one of the greatest fortunes and most lucrative demesnes in wizarding Britain, betrayer of his father and of the most powerful wizard of this century – Dumbledore be damned – would bother to save some wastrel of a girl from a family of blood-traitors and deliver her into the loving arms of his simple-minded, self-righteous childhood foe. The answer is quite obvious: it was for that very manor and legacy that I devised my own demise and removed myself from the final battle. Pettigrew's experience – though I never befouled myself with the swine's presence – had taught me the invaluable lesson of concealment by faked death. That my father, that beloved hypocrite, hated the Animagus for hiding after the Dark Lord's first reversal spurred me on further. I suppose that was much less dignified than simply lying to that cretin Fudge and plying that witless politician with trinkets and the occasional disbursement of a few thousand Galleons. (Well, Pettigrew did spend twelve likely arduous years as a pet rat at the Weasleys' while we still had comfort and luxury.)

With the Dark Lord's second coming, it looked as if I'd no option left to me. There was either Father's road or Dumbledore's. Doubtless, there were advantages on each side. Had the Dark Lord defeated Potter and I'd remained so serendipitously aligned, the rewards – starting with no more Potter – would have been immeasurable. The celebrations, as debauched as they could possibly become, would have continued for weeks as we imposed our will on the world. Or at least that was what some of us were led to believe.

Doubtless the Dark Lord's need for absolute dominion over his disciples would have reduced our freedoms to those we 'enjoyed' during the Commonwealth. Father's craven submission to our purported deliverer – wizarding society's own Cromwell (that accursèd Muggle) – was something I could no longer stomach. And if our Dark Suzerain faltered and that churlish little half-breed Potter survived – how hard could it truly have been to kill that specky ickle git? – my family would have lost everything we spent centuries to acquire thanks to the Dark Arts Victims Compensation Decree, Perkins's not-so-subtle way of amassing a fortune for the Ministry and herself. Freedoms or wealth; not an easy decision.

The other course was no less hazardous. If I had renounced all that I believed in, even if only for the time being, my father would have excised me from the will immediately. There was no possibility of me becoming a spy; what had happened to Professor Snape is still fresh in my mind. (He may have been a blood traitor, but he was admirable in his way.) Had the Dark Lord been victorious, I would have departed this mortal coil in no less deplorable circumstances. And even though Potter had succeeded, Perkins would have used my disinheritance as sufficient cause to deny me my rightful legacy. The only thing of which I was certain was that Potter would find some way to bugger up everything no matter what decision I made. So charitable of him to oblige by dying _then_. Why he couldn't have achieved that during a Quidditch match?

That whinging cretin's death along with that of that mad old fool Dumbledore must have simplified Perkins's plans for my family's legacy immeasurably. Though undoubtedly the little one would have told the specky twit, the old duffer, the Weasel, and the Mudblood about my sacrifice, perhaps a few others as well, the Minister of State managed to silence the living. (Gryffindor honour would have demanded they reveal what I had done for them, for their cause despite our mutual enmity.) From what I learned in my hide-out, she had an easy time of it. The girl drugged into oblivion, the doss git kept away from his precious pet, and the rest of that ridiculous cabal of blood traitors preoccupied by Father's compatriots or in hospital, leaving no-one to espouse my case.

Anyway, back to the original question: why did I save the Weasley girl? Well, in the end it was revealed to me – not in so many words, of course – that in all likelihood, the Dark Lord was going to lose the War. It was hard to believe then. Everything was going so well: deaths and manipulations of senior Ministry officials, a few giant rampages, the possibility of gathering a few dark creatures like vampires and lycanthropes under his banner, whilst Dumbledore was still trying to negotiate with the goblins and centaurs. Wasted effort.

The Dark Lord had delegated such duties to a few clever, or equally blood-thirsty, minions so that he could concentrate once more on that prophecy. Finally, in the summer before my sixth year, he had secured it. It's hard to say how he succeeded in convincing that fraud Trelawney to leave the Castle and Grounds, but I suspect it might have had something to do with a diminishing supply of decent sherry in the kitchens. (Someone, I've yet to discover who, had lightly poisoned the kitchen's store, leading to the demise of more than a few house-elves.) This unfortunate lack of her preferred tipple strangely coincided with one of Dumbledore's many absences, obliging the peculiar creature to wander into Hogsmeade and the Dark Lord's awaiting clutches.

Extracting the prophecy took longer than the Dark Lord might have expected and revealed more than he desired. Instead of accepting Trelawney's vision for what it was – a set of possibilities rather than an absolute certainty – he pursued her down one particular course and was alarmed by the outcome. Terrified that he would be unable to escape his fate, he decided once again to cheat against destiny.

From my foolish father, the Dark Lord had learned of the ploy that had cost him his diary. Though our lord and master had been furious at the time, he then found that mistake had an unintended benefit. Since the Weasley girl's mind had been penetrated once before by a shade of the Dark Lord's younger, more inexperienced self, he conjectured his matured power would grant him some measure of control over her. And yet, due to the distance and the many protective measures arrayed around their hovel after our fourth year he succeeded only in transmitting to her tampered images of what Trelawney had Seen. Even that, he suspected, ought to have provoked Dumbledore or even Potter into action. But the Dark Lord had not counted on the stubbornness of the Weasleys, especially that of the youngest of their brood.

In her obstinacy, charming young Miss Weasley did not scarper to her parents or brothers, not to that boy by whom she'd been enraptured as a child, not even to the Headmaster, though he was always interested in what she had to say. No, she kept that bloody vision within her, despite the occasional prompting by the Dark Lord. In the end, once it became evident that she would never reveal what she had supposedly 'Seen', he intimated that we nab her, preferably along with that Granger Mudblood who seemed so annoyingly able to deduce plans. Mother, perhaps to protect me against my father's fate, indiscreetly discussed the Dark Lord's plan in my presence.

It is said that to be forewarned is to be fore-armed. Once the Dark Lord ordered me to abduct Weasley and Granger and told me who would accompany me on that task, I knew that at least one of them would die. On my way back to Hogwarts that year, I seem to have forgotten about the Mudblood well aware that if either the Weasley girl or Granger were seriously injured my chances for a full pardon by the Ministry after the War would be completely dashed. Instead, I informed Crabbe and Goyle, and Bulstrode, Vincent's girlfriend who was eager to plot Miss Weasley's downfall, that we would nab the younger woman and whomever we could. Meanwhile, I proceeded to surreptitiously brew a large batch of Polyjuice Potion in an abandoned girl's lavatory, ably assisted by a rather morose ghost.

Vile though it is to say, it was tremendously good fortune – insofar as I was concerned – that kept Ginny Weasley out of our fiendish grip until that May day she sauntered through the grounds with poor Luna Lovegood. Despite what you might think of me, there isn't a day that I don't regret her passing, though please understand that my reasons are not altogether self-serving. After all, Miss Weasley's survival led to the final defeat of the Dark Lord, as well as that of Harry Potter – an added benefit for the rest of us.

Ah! A disturbingly familiar bird alights before, clucking her beak angrily at me desperate to relieve herself of her burden. After several tries and many nipped fingers, she carefully makes her way home through the trees, abandoning me once more to the jungle. Yet the foul-tempered messenger brings a happy missive:

I have been summoned home.

—14 June 2003


End file.
